


The Call to Power

by Little Spoon (JaydenNara)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Comes Back, Established Relationship, Hale Family Feels, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mild Gore, Near Future, Oblivious Scott, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Stiles Stilinski Comes Back, Stilinski Family Feels, Werewolf Courting, Wolf Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-06-08 13:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15244446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaydenNara/pseuds/Little%20Spoon
Summary: The engine of Stiles’ old beat-up Jeep sputtered and rattled as it pulled into the driveway of the Stilinski house, and for the first time in three years, Derek and Stiles were home. Not that Beacon Hills was home. The town was nothing more than a swath territory that they had both sacrificed, bled, and nearly died for.The land, however, was another matter.--(Or: Stiles and Derek come home, and things aren't quite what they appear.)





	1. Home

The engine of Stiles’ old beat-up Jeep sputtered and rattled as it pulled into the driveway of the Stilinski house, and for the first time in three years, Derek and Stiles were home. Not that Beacon Hills was home. The town was nothing more than a swath territory that they had both sacrificed, bled, and nearly died for. Or actually died, in Derek’s rare case. But neither of them had any particular ties to the town beyond a history of pain, and they both had escaped as soon as they could. The land, however, was another matter.

Stiles had entered the FBI training program after his internship, but not even halfway through, changed his mind, and Derek had followed him across the country after the brief events that had dragged them back to Beacon Hills for a period. They’d left together this time, and now, they were back. Hopefully, for good.

Home, in a more philosophical sense, walked out the front door of the Stilinski house, arms crossed over his chest and eyebrows pinched as the Jeep shuddered to a halt. Snorting a laugh as his son tumbled out of the Jeep, half his limbs still in the vehicle, Sheriff Noah Jonathan ‘call me John’ Stilinski greeted his son’s more graceful companion who climbed out of the passenger side of the sky blue rust bucket.

“Sheriff,” Derek greeted, accompanied by a short nod and a firm handshake.

The Sheriff scoffed as he dragged the werewolf into a tight hug, and patted the kid on the back. “It’s good to see you, son,” he said, and the poor boy melted into the warm hug. “And it’s John to you. Keeping that idiot out of trouble?”

Derek stood shoulder to shoulder with John on the front stoop and watched Stiles’ struggle to untangle the hood of his jacket from the window crank while he hopped on one foot. “It’s a work in progress.”

“You could help, asshole,” Stiles snarked at his boyfriend, and Derek rolled his eyes, but obediently jogged back to the Jeep to disentangle the twenty-two-year-old walking disaster. He grumbled under his breath about stupid werewolves and their tight clothing, but held still for Derek and let the older man peck him on the cheek when he was free.

“Hey, kiddo.” The Sheriff had left the front step and welcomed his kid in a giant bone-crushing hug when Stiles bounded across the yard. “Missed you.”

Thumping his dad on the back for good measure, Stiles pressed his nose to the patch of skin behind his dad’s ear - a learned habit from spending too much time around born werewolves - and sighed in content. “Missed you too.”

The Stilinski men finally took a step back after several long minutes with a final pat on the shoulder. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, Derek stood several paces behind Stiles and examined the chipped paint of the garage door to give them the illusion of privacy.

“You staying here tonight, Derek? Or are you heading over to check on the loft?” John asked. “Guest room is yours if you want it.”

“Dad!” Stiles whined. “I’m an adult with an adult boyfriend. What’s next? Gonna negotiate my bride price and escort me to the ball? If Derek is staying anywhere, it’s with me, in my bed...” He paused to think. “Preferably naked.”

Derek closed his eyes and groaned, but the Sheriff rolled his eyes.

“You planning on wearing a dress in that scenario?” the Sheriff said.

“Hey! I look damn good in a dress,” Stiles declared, but behind him, the tips of Derek’s ears were turning a lovely shade of pink.

John held up his hands in defeat. “I don’t wanna know.”

“It was red and slinky,” Stiles said with a sly grin.

“Please stop talking,” Derek begged, hiding his face with his hand, and Stiles cackled at his boyfriend’s discomfort.

“Need a hand with your things?” The Sheriff gestured to where the Jeep stood in the driveway with the driver’s side door still open.

“Right.” Stiles anxiously rubbed the back of his neck and glanced nervously down at the ground as he shifted foot to foot. “About that... Derek would be totally lost without me. I mean, he’s hopeless when it comes to functioning as a regular person without lurking in shadows and jumping out at unsuspecting teenagers, not that I’m a teenager anymore, or any of us, and really, I can’t sleep without my snugglewolf. It just makes so much more sense to-”

“Stiles and I plan to renovate the loft and live there, together,” Derek said, cutting off Stiles and stepping up beside the floundering his boyfriend. He placed a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and the human stilled.

The Sheriff sighed and scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “I suppose that makes sense. You lived travelled together for the last few years, and I’m not going to pretend that I don’t have a good idea of what you got up to. Guess I was just happy to have my kid home.”

“Ah, crap. Dad...” Stiles dove in for another hug.

“We could stay until the structural repairs are done,” Derek suggested and was then dragged into the Stilinski group hug.

It took several more minutes to finally pry Stiles off his dad, but they migrated into the house and the Sheriff offered to help them unpack again. For the most part, Stiles planned to leave his childhood room the way it was, but they needed a bigger bed because while dating Malia had been one thing, two full grown men would not fit. Derek was not exactly slender. Dude was built like a tank that Stiles liked to climb.

When the loft was finished, they’d cannibalize Stiles’ room for parts. He’d want his comics, books, maybe his desk, and definitely his dresser since Derek was a bit Spartan in his decorating choices. A duffle bag under the bed, while practical, was just sad. Like Derek had never expected to put down roots or build a home. At least he had a bed and hadn’t been crashing in anymore abandoned subway cars. They’d pick up the mattress in the morning and make due with Stiles’ double for one night.

“Don’t worry, dad. Derek’s got it,” Stiles shouted back to his dad on his way down the hall to his room with his pillow under one arm and his backpack over the other shoulder.

The bedroom was exactly the way Stiles had left it last Christmas when he’d visited alone, unmade bed and all. Derek had met up with Cora and they’d gone backpacking through Peru. Alone for almost a month, Stiles had taken advantage of the opportunity for some bonding time with his dad.

“I do, do I?” Derek said. He pushed by Stiles into the bedroom with his own bag, his boyfriend smacking his ass as he passed, and wrinkled his nose. It still smelled like hormones and desperation with a hint of loss and sorrow.

“If you boys are sure you don’t need a hand, do you want lasagna?” the Sheriff called from the kitchen.

“Damn straight we do!” Stiles answered.

“Not so straight,” Derek muttered, and suddenly a body was plastered to his side.

Stiles playfully nuzzled into Derek’s throat and nipped at the sensitive skin until the werewolf whined. “God, I’ve never been more attracted to you than I am right now,” Stiles murmured.

“None of that under my roof!”

Stiles let his forehead drop to Derek’s shoulder. “Damn parent senses.”

They slowly unpacked away the few belongings that Stiles had wanted to bring home with him as the scent of a frozen lasagna baking began to waft through the house. It took several trips out to the Jeep. Books were piled into boxes, and any clothes had been crammed into Derek’s old duffle bag.

Derek did most of the heavy lifting while Stiles ‘supervised’ his progress. Last to be moved was an enormous wooden chest with a triskele carved into the lid. Derek maneuvered it through the front door and down the hall while Stiles stood back and appreciated the way his muscles rippled under his white tank top.

Derek raised an eyebrow at his boyfriend when he turned around to find Stiles eyeing him with interest and followed his boyfriend back out into the front yard for a final check of the Jeep.

“I can’t wait to get you alone tonight,” Stiles said once he slammed the rear door closed. He ran a hand down Derek’s chest, settling on his belt, and tugged the werewolf closer. “You’re such a tease with your tight tank top and don’t get me started on those jeans. You do it on purpose. I know you do.” He slid his hands down Derek’s waist and grab a handful of the perfectly toned bubble butt he loved so much.

Growling in the back of his throat, Derek backed Stiles into the side of the Jeep and claimed his lips in a bruising kiss. Stiles always tasted amazing.

As they hungrily made out in the front yard, old Mrs. Perkins peeking out from behind her lace curtains to spy on them, the Sheriff walked out the front door and sighed. “I really don’t want to arrest you two for public indecency in my own yard.”

Derek pulled back, head tilted to the side as he focused on the distant sound of a familiar engine. “Scott,” he said by way of explanation, and Stiles groaned, letting his head thump against the Jeep.

After the smoke cleared on the final battle of Beacon Hills, Scott hadn’t understood why Stiles had needed to leave again. He may be content to hang around his hometown and cling to the glory days by coaching lacrosse, but Stiles had plans for bigger and better things. Their parting hadn’t been pleasant.

By the time Scott’s bike pulled onto their street, Derek had followed John into the house. Scott parked at the curb in front of the house and pulled off his helmet.

“Dude, you’re here!” Scott bounced forward with a huge grin stretched across his face.

Stiles scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the grass, hands shoved into the pockets of his red hoodie. “Hey.”

“It’s so awesome that you’re back,” Scott said. He dove in for a hug, oblivious to Stiles stiff in his embrace. “Do you need help unloading? I know your dad can’t really handle the heavy lifting anymore.”

Not since Scott chose to dive in front of a fully capable werecoyote with supernatural healing than protect the human Sheriff that had been like a second father to him. But Stiles kept his thoughts to himself.

“Don’t worry about it. Derek handled it,” Stiles said.

Scott frowned. “Oh. So he’s back. Like, for good?”

Stiles rocked forward on the balls of his feet and nodded. “Yup. He’s inside.”

Scott’s eyes darted towards the house and then back to Stiles. “Oh. Cool. I can’t stay. I’m meeting Malia in half an hour,” he said with a dopey grin that Stiles recognized from years of watching Scott’s roller coaster of infatuation.

“How kind of you to fit me into your busy schedule,” Stiles deadpanned.

Scott beamed. “Course, dude. What are best buds for?” he said, and patted Stiles’ shoulder and glanced back up at the house again. “Hey, look. It’s great to see you, and we’ll catch up soon. I gotta go. But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about, uh...” His eyes darted back to the house again where Derek was growling lowly out of sight.

Once again, Scott was blowing Stiles off for a girl, and even if she was Derek’s cousin, it wasn’t forgivable. Especially since Malia was Stiles’ ex. Apparently, their social circle didn’t understand the concept of the bro-code.

“Think we could meet up tomorrow before my shift?” Scott suggested.

Stiles debated shutting him down for all of two seconds, but agreed with a resigned nod. “Yeah. Sure,” he said. “Text me when and where.”

“Cool. Cool, yeah. Okay. I’ll do that. It’s good to see you, man.” Scott clapped Stiles on the shoulder again and took off without a second glance at the house or even acknowledging Derek.

Stiles jumped when two arms slid around his waist and drew him back against a solid body, not having heard Derek approach as he watched Scott tear away on his bike.

“You okay?” Derek asked. His thumb slipped under the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt to gently rub the soft skin.

“Yeah. Fine. ‘bout what I expected,” Stiles sighed as he sank back into Derek’s body, letting his boyfriend support him. He patted the back of Derek’s hand. “Come on, big guy. That lasagna better be veggie or there will be hell to pay.”

Derek smirked against Stiles’ temple as he kissed him. “Of course.”

 

The serenity of morning broke with the shrieking wail of Stiles’ 6 AM alarm. Stiles and Derek, tangled together in Stiles’ childhood bed, groaned in unison. Derek dragged his pillow up over his head to drown out the sound, but Stiles chose to burrow further under Derek himself to hide from the morning. Even the sun wasn’t up yet.

The alarm continued to blare. When it became apparent that Stiles wasn’t going to move, Derek took matters into his own hands and shoved the human out of bed.

The floor was freezing cold. Stiles shrieked when his bare skin hit the floor like he had been plunged into a frozen lake rather than landed on the chilly carpet of his bedroom floor. Scrambling to shut off the alarm, he dove back into the warmth and safety of their blanket cocoon and burrowed under Derek’s bulk to regain the heat that had been sapped from him.

Derek growled. “You’re cold.”

“Oh yeah? And who’s fault is that, asshole,” Stiles grouched and snuggled closer. He planted his cold feet on Derek’s legs and snickered when the werewolf hissed like an angry cat. “Fix it.”

“Fix it, hmm...” Derek rolled Stiles onto his back and hovered over him, propped up on his elbows. He lazily dragged his nose down the curve of Stiles’ throat and inhaled the intimate scent of them that his boyfriend carried. “I think I could be persuaded with the right incentive.”

Stiles groaned, hips rolling against the firm plane of his boyfriend’s body that pinned him in place. “How ‘bout, your mouth, my cock?” Stiles said, then immediately whimpered when Derek growled and nipped at his collarbone.

Impatient, as always, for the main event, Stiles attempted to speed up the process by pushing on the top of Derek’s head to guide him down to the destination, but Derek was unmoved. Werewolf strength aided in maintaining the torturous pace of descent so he could litter hot, wet kisses along Stiles’ abdomen that left a trail of love bites in his wake until Stiles tugged desperately at Derek’s hair.

Derek loved that any mark he left on Stiles would not fade. It frustrated Stiles to no end that he couldn’t do the same, and he had tried. Stiles had literally spent hours in the noble pursuit of leaving his mark on Derek’s skin. And werewolves were supposed to be the possessive ones. Defeated by supernatural healing beyond his control, Stiles had taken the most logical step in the face of failure.

Derek’s tongue laved the triskele tattoo inked into the pale skin of his exposed hip. The location had been spur of the moment, a last second decision based on Derek’s penchant for playfully biting Stiles in that exact spot. The soft roughness of Derek’s scruff brushed against eagerly weeping erection, and he hissed. “Shit. Shit, yeah. Okay. This is happening,” Stiles rambled. “Come on.”

They hadn’t had sex in days. Which for them was an eternity since they had a rather healthy and active sexual relationship that had begun long before their actual relationship. Packing to move back across the country had exhausted them to the point Stiles had passed out several times the second his head hit the pillow, and every stop along the drive home meant unfamiliar scents of previous occupants of various hotels and motels which offended Derek’s nose.

Just as Derek’s warm mouth closed around the head of Stiles’ cock to suckle the tip, there was a sharp rap on the closed door. “Stiles? You wanted me to make sure you got up in time to meet Scott.”

“Oh shit!” Stiles tugged frantically on Derek’s hair, but his boyfriend swallowed him down to the root until his nose was nestled in the thick thatch of curly pubes. “Shit, Derek. No. Bad wolf,” he moaned, biting his lip and trying to keep his voice. “Oh fuck...”

“Boys?” The Sheriff knocked again. “Don’t make me come in. I don’t want to see whatever it is that is happening.”

Derek hummed happily around Stiles, savouring the familiar tang of precum on his tongue until Stiles tone shifted to something more urgent and his scent soured. Stiles’ breath hitched and he clapped a hand over his mouth. The effect was immediate. Derek backed off and crawled up Stiles’ body until his head poked back out from under the blankets.

“We’re up! We’re up,” Derek called. His voice came out a little rougher than usual. “Just give us a minute.” He waited until he heard John’s assent and retreating footsteps before he carefully pried Stiles’ hand away from his mouth. “Hey... Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Stiles drew a shuddering breath, but didn’t meet Derek’s probing gaze. “It’s fine.”

“No. It’s not,” Derek said. He rolled off Stiles and onto his back, one arm behind his head. “You said no. I didn’t stop. I...” He wiped his free hand across his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

The blankets shifted and slid lower on their hips as Stiles sat up and dragged his fingers through his hair. It was a little shaggier than a few years ago and curled around his ears. “Usually I’m up for a bit of exhibitionism and all that kinky goodness, but it’s my dad, ya know?”

Humming in affirmation, Derek rolled onto his side and threw an arm around Stiles’ waist. He brushed his lips against the exposed skin of Stiles’ hip dotted with a smattering of beauty marks.

Stiles chuckled at the snuggly werewolf nuzzling his hip with the tip of his nose. “God, you’re sickeningly adorable,” Stiles snickered. “I forgave you before you even stopped. I know I’m pretty damn hard to resist.” His fingers carded through his boyfriend’s soft hair. He glanced at his old alarm clock on the bedside table. “Shit! I’m gonna be late!”

For the second time that morning, Stiles fell out of bed, but this time with purpose. He rushed around the room to get ready while Derek watched him lazily from the warmth of the bed. Hopping on one foot, he pulled his jeans from the night before on. He paused beside the bed. Derek was soft and sleepy, and very nude, all snuggled in their nest of blankets.

“Hey,” Stiles greeted with an easy content smile. He pecked Derek on the lips, and Derek’s hand moved to cup the back of his head and deepen the kiss. “Be back soon. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Derek murmured and reluctantly let Stiles go.

 

The Top 40’s station blared on the radio. Stiles drummed along to the catchy beat and sang along off-key to the chorus of a song that he couldn’t name while he drove down Main Street to the tiny family-run cafe he agreed to meet Scott at. He swung wide into a parking spot right out front and hopped out of the Jeep with more success than the night before. Messenger bag slung over his shoulder, he headed inside with a bounce in his step. 

In a few days, Stiles and Derek would meet with the contractor about the loft. The whole building really. They planned to renovate, remodel, and rent out the units. Even create industrial space on the ground floor for small businesses.

However, that was a ways off still. Today was about catching up with Stiles’ dad and settling in. Stiles would get a hot chocolate for Derek on his way out of the coffee shop because his big tough wolfy boyfriend had a huge sweet tooth that he was shy about. Stiles was more than happy to order ridiculously sweet treats and pretend they were for him if it made Derek smile, but Stiles had learned to enjoy bitter. His ADHD and sugar never mixed well, or so they had thought.

Apparently, latent magical talent had been to blame for his restless energy, which explained his inability to focus until he learned to tap into and cultivate his magical spark. His mind had settled and the excess energy calmed. But the love of all things unsweetened had stuck: black coffee, unsweetened tea, dark chocolate.

The bell over the door jingled. A quick survey told Stiles that Scott wasn’t there yet, so Stiles ordered a small black coffee and picked out a seat in the corner with his back against the wall so he could watch the door and keep tabs on the entire cafe. He pulled out his Kobo to read. He’d scanned a copy of a rare and ancient magical tome thanks to the generosity of a collector in New Orleans.

Twenty minutes later, the bell over the door jingled again. Scott completely bypassed the counter and headed straight for Stiles in the corner. He slumped down into the seat across from him and grinned.

“Hey! Sorry, I’m late,” Scott said in a rush. “Busy night. Well, you know.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and tucked his e-reader back into his bag. “Unfortunately,” he said, then blinked when Scott plunked a small box tied with brown twine down on the table in front of him and pushed it towards Stiles. “Uhh...”

Scott leaned forward eagerly. “Well?”

Picking up the small gift, Stiles held it up beside his ear and shook it. Nothing happened, but it was heavier than it looked. He raised an eyebrow at Scott.

“Open it!”

Tugging at the twine, Stiles unwrapped a small, unimpressive and common piece of smoky quartz. It sat heavy and cold in his palm.

“It’s for your control.” Scott beamed. “It gets rid of blocks and negative energy, but also will help with your meditation and focus and stuff. You know, so you can practice magic and not be worried that you’ll hurt someone again.”

“I, uh... thanks?” Stiles set it down on the table beside his coffee cup. His magic had never hurt anyone, at least, not without Stiles express desire to. The hunters that had snared Derek in a wolfsbane rope, strung him up by his hind leg, and threatened to skin him for his pelt had it coming. But Scott didn’t know about them. And he never would.

Scott nodded and smiled again. “No problem. I know it’s scary to suddenly have power like that. Especially after the darkness and negativity of the, you know, nogitsune and all. But you got this, man!” Scott glanced at his watch. “Oh crap! I gotta go,” he said as he shoved back from the table. “But think about it, ‘kay? We have to wait until the full moon, but it’ll be fine. Deaton’s got it sorted.”

Before Stiles could even respond, or bid him farewell, Scott was already out the door. Frowning down at the chunk of unremarkable quartz on the table, Stiles sat alone and confused. Derek had given him a moonstone two years ago to ease his depression and anxiety, and soothe his nightmares. He’d finally begun sleeping through the night after he had crafted a small pendant out of the crystal.

Stiles placed a hand over the small pendant of moonstone hidden under his retro Batman t-shirt. It connected him to the moon and her children. It shielded his mind and protected him. Quartz was common and a little useless unless it was a particularly rare form, which a smokey quartz was not.

“Oh shit!” Stiles grabbed the piece of quartz and rushed out of the cafe, abandoning his own half drunk cup of coffee and forgetting to order Derek a drink to go.

 


	2. Claim

Stiles tumbled through the front door and nearly face-planted on the carpeted floor, but he caught himself on the coat rack beside the door. The quartz still clutched tightly in his hand, he stumbled into the kitchen out of breath and a little sweaty. The Sheriff sat at the kitchen table, a piece of bacon guiltily hanging from his mouth, but that didn’t even register in Stiles’ brain.

At the stove with a spatula in his hand, Derek paused in flipping a pancake to raise a judgy eyebrow at his boyfriend before he picked up on the rabbiting rate of Stiles’ heart. “Stiles?”

“He’s courting me!” Stiles panted and waved the piece of polished quartz at Derek. “He’s courting me.”

“Who?” John said through a mouthful of hastily chewed bacon. “I thought you were dating Derek?”

The odd question gave Stiles enough pause that he calmed down enough to laugh. “Scott. And yes. Derek is my boo,” he said and glanced at Derek who was still frozen in place by the stove.

“So, Scott is trying to horn in on your relationship?” the Sheriff asked with a frown. “That’s not right.”

“What, no? Ewww! No!” Stiles fumbled with the quartz and promptly dropped it, but thankfully, Derek unfroze in time to catch it before it hit the floor. “Thanks, big guy.”

Derek frowned at the small, rather unimpressive mineral that was barely larger than his thumb. “He gave you this? It’s worthless,” he scoffed and shoved the quartz back into Stiles’ hand and turned to serve John a pancake fresh from the pan. “You’d think he’d try a little harder.”

“You’d think,” Stiles mumbled. He dropped the quartz onto the table where it skittered across the surface until it stopped beside his dad’s coffee mug.

The Sheriff picked up the shiny stone and squinted at it. “Okay. Someone is going to need to explain this to me. It’s not some weird werewolf mating practice, is it? Because Scott’s a good kid and all, but Derek makes a mighty fine steak. Plus, he likes baseball.”

Derek practically beamed at the praise. Over the years, he and the Sheriff had developed a bond outside of their relationship with Stiles, one that included baseball, beer, and BBQ. He became the son that enabled in order to temper Stiles’ unrestrained need to monitor the Sheriff’s health.

Stiles snorted. “What mighty high standards you have there, dad, but sadly, no, not some weird kinky werewolf thing. He, uh, wants me to be his emissary,” he said. He picked up a fork and twirled it between his fingers as Derek set down a plate of bacon and pancakes in front of him. “Thanks, babe.”

Well...” John finished chewing a mouthful of breakfast and swallowed. “He is your oldest friend. It makes sense that he would trust you to-”

Stiles’ sudden and somewhat hysterical laughter cut off his father. Even Derek chuckled. 

“It’s not about trust,” Derek said. He stacked five pancakes on his own plate, drowned them in syrup, and added a half pound of bacon to the pile. “It’s about power. Stiles has it. Scott wants it. But he can’t have it because Stiles’ magic can’t be bound to him.” He set his plate down on the table and dug in. “I smell Deaton’s meddling.”

“Shit. I mean shit.” Stiles dropped his fork back onto his plate, food untouched, and raked his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t even realize what was happening until after he rushed off. Fucking bailed mid-conversation. He didn’t even state his intent like proper pack etiquette dictates. I mean, there are rules to follow, and he called my magic tainted, well not outright, then shoved that at me,” he ranted while gesturing at the quartz sitting innocently on the table by his dad’s elbow. The words tumbled faster and faster as he struggled to suck down air. “Shit, dude. He was talking like it’s already a done deal, and with the full moon around the corner, it’s like he just expects me to bend over and-”

“Stiles. Stiles!” Derek crouched in front of his boyfriend, wrenched Stiles’ hands out of his hair, and focused Stiles’ attention on him. “Breathe. I need you to breathe, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?”

The Sheriff sat silently at the other end of the table watching Derek Hale of all people talk his son down from the beginnings of a panic attack. Derek was patient and kind with Stiles. He spoke in a calm soothing tone that put everyone in the room at ease. He was hardly recognizable as the angry young man that had taken a group of reluctant troubled teens under his wing. The Sheriff stole another piece of bacon off Derek’s plate while the boys were distracted.

Stiles rested his cheek against the top of Derek’s head while the werewolf hugged him tightly around the middle. “I’m gonna have to tell him no,” he said, and Derek nodded under his cheek. “This is gonna suck.”

 

Beacon Hills wasn’t a small town. Average sized, really, with a downtown core, several parks, and a nightlife, albeit, one that struggled under the constant threat of supernatural death and chaos drawn by a polluted Nemeton. Most people had learned to stick to the crowded strip to avoid a potentially dangerous situation. Still, teenagers managed to wander into the Preserve in search of adventure or a quiet place to drink, and that often didn’t end well.

After a day spent watching the game and drinking a few beers with the Sheriff, Stiles and Derek were out for a night on the town. Stiles was still a little tipsy from their late afternoon drinking, which meant his hands tended to wander a bit. Not that Derek minded. He let his idiot boyfriend grope his butt, steal kisses, and rub his beard. The best part, in Derek’s completely unbiased opinion, was when Stiles held his hand.

Hand in hand, they walked down the street together. Stiles chattered away about everything and anything he could think of, his free hand waving about with enthusiasm. One train of thought led to another, and then to another, until logic would have been lost on anyone else. 

“We should get smoothies!” Stiles declared halfway through a rant on the effects of screens on the undeveloped mind of a toddler. They stopped in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a little bubble tea shop. “With pearls. Oh man. Remember that time you gave me a pearl necklace, then you licked it off super slow and growled. Fuck that was hot.”

“It’s too cold for a smoothie, Stiles,” Derek said, and completely ignored the odd sexual tangent. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and wrapped it around Stiles’ shoulders when the human began to shiver. “I wouldn’t say no to a taro milk tea though.” 

Still, late April, nights were still chilly in the northern parts of California. People tended to forget that it wasn’t all sunshine and beaches. Stiles tugged the borrowed leather jacket tight and inhaled the gentle scent of Derek’s natural musk. As a werewolf, Derek rarely wore scented products, and Stiles tried to avoid them to out of respect for his boyfriend’s sensitive wolfy nose.

Content to stand on the curb and not so subtly scent his newly borrowed jacket while Derek ducked into the little shop, Stiles hummed to himself while he waited for Derek to return with drinks. He rocked back onto his heels and let out a puff of air that fogged in the cold.

“Stiles?”

At the sound of his name, Stiles spun around. “Lydia Martin!” he greeted with a huge grin that only faltered for a second when he caught sight of her companion. “And Deputy Parrish.”

Jordan Parrish, Lydia’s current beau, shuffled awkwardly and offered Stiles a small wave, but he couldn’t meet Stiles' eyes. Not all that unsurprising considering he had been one of the many splinters that had shattered Stiles and Lydia’s ill-conceived relationship.

“You’re back,” Lydia said curtly. “Jordan mentioned that you would be coming home, but he wasn’t certain on the timeframe.”

“Dad runnin’ his mouth at the station again?” Stiles chuckled. His dad never could keep anything boast-worthy too himself, and his prodigal sons - yes, plural - sat at the top of a very short list. “Thought he was gonna cry last night when we weren’t going to stay at the house.”

“Pretty sure that was you,” Derek said appearing at Stiles’ elbow with two drinks. “Strawberry green tea with pearls and coconut jellies.”

“Derek?” Lydia’s eyes narrowed as the cogs began to turn, then suddenly, she clapped her hands together. “Finally! You’re together. I almost thought you were denser than Jackson.”

Derek was quick to pat Stiles on the back when the human choked on several tapioca pearls that quickly ended up on the sidewalk in a sticky mess. Lydia wrinkled her nose.

“I resent that,” Stiles sputtered. “I always knew I liked Derek. I mean, hello.” He gestured wildly to Derek’s general attractive person which made the werewolf blush until the tips of his ears turned pink. “Teenage wet dream. Bi-sexual crisis. Masturbatory fantasy since the age of sixteen. Seriously, I wanted to-”

Derek silenced Stiles with a large hand over his idiotic boyfriend’s mouth. “Don’t finish that thought,” he muttered, then promptly grimaced when Stiles licked the inside of his palm. He wiped the mess down Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles shrieked and scrubbed furiously at his own slobber on side of his face. “Dick.”

Lydia pursed her lips in an effort not to laugh because absolutely nothing had changed. They were still the same antagonist assholes they had been when they first met, and that would never change, or if it did, there would be no hope for the rest of them.

Stiles and Derek were yanked down into a bone-crushing hug by a tiny five foot two woman in three-inch heels. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks, Lyds,” Stiles whispered back and melted into her embrace even when Derek slowly eased himself free and stepped back. “But to be fair, Derek and I have been bangin’ for years.”

Jordan shared a brief look of uncertainty and discomfort with the werewolf. Being around your significant other’s ex, even if there was absolutely no residual feelings, was always a trying and awkward experience. The instinct to compare was difficult to resist.

“You take care of her, ya hear?” Stiles said. He jabbed a finger in Parrish’s direction and narrowed his eyes. “She is a queen, and deserves to be treated as such.”

Lydia smirked a little too smugly at her boyfriend when she stretched up onto her tiptoes to kiss Stiles’ on the cheek. A low growl erupted from the werewolf behind them, and suddenly, a laughing Stiles was hauled out of Lydia’s grasp, arms flailing, and tucked safely in Derek’s possessive embrace. Lydia simply raised an eyebrow at Derek, and the werewolf bared his teeth in challenge.

“Easy there, big guy.” Stiles patted Derek’s chest in reassurance. “I’m not going anywhere. All yours.”

Derek released Stiles and stepped back as if he had been burned. “I... I don’t know what came over me.” 

But that only amused Stiles further. The human laced their fingers together and squeezed. “How ‘bout we go make out in the park a bit, then head home. Think I could use some snugglewolf time, if you’re up for it,” Stiles suggested with a flirtatious wiggle of his eyebrows, and the tips of Derek’s ears turned pink.

The couples quickly said their goodbyes with promises to get together and catch up soon. Lydia promised to call Stiles in the morning with plans for high tea, which Stiles couldn’t turn down because platters of food were always good.

Hands still tightly linked together, they meandered in the general direction of the park a few blocks away. A comfortable silence fell over them, content to enjoy each other’s company and sip their drinks.

A few teenagers loitered on the empty playground, and an elderly woman walked her dog along the path that ran the circuit of the park. Stiles shivered when his backside hit the cold wooden bench beside Derek.

“Thought you wanted to make-out,” Derek rumbled.

Never one to back down, Stiles stood up and swung a leg over Derek’s lap so he could straddle his boyfriend on the park bench, butt firmly settled on Derek’s thighs and arms draped loosely around Derek’s shoulders.  “You’re right,” Stiles hummed before he captured Derek’s mouth with his own. 

Derek tangled his fingers in Stiles’ hair, cupping the back of his head to deepen their kiss, and Stiles whimpered. He broke the kiss in favour of trailing his lips down Stiles’ throat.

“God,” Stiles rasped. He tilted his head back to give Derek further access to mark him. “Reminds me of getting down and dirty in the back of the Camaro as a teenager.”

“You were nineteen, Stiles,” Derek said with a particularly hard nip to the pale skin which made the half-empty drink slip out of Stiles’ lax grasp. “Don’t make it sound like I’m a dirty old man.”

Stiles flopped over Derek’s shoulder to stare mournfully down at his spilled drink in the grass behind the bench. “I wasn’t finished that.”

“I’d say you could have the rest of mine, but we both know what dairy does to you.” Derek wrinkled his nose at the mere memory of rancid gas.

“Rude!” Stiles exclaimed, but Derek just laughed and rubbed his stubbled cheek against Stiles’. Eventually, Stiles settled down against, nose buried in the crook of Derek’s neck, and melted under the nimble fingers that had snuck up the back of his shirt and borrowed jacket to work the knots out of his back until he was relaxed and pliant.

“Home?” Derek suggested in a soft murmur against Stiles’ temple. His boyfriend smelled like contentment, completely at ease, which was a feat in and of itself.

Stiles simply hummed in agreement. It took several seconds for Derek to rearrange Stiles onto his back, but the werewolf happily carried his dozing boyfriend for the duration of the ten-minute trek back to the Jeep, and then drove them home, their hands clasped over the center console the entire way.

 

If the Sheriff had been left in charge of meals for the duration of Derek and Stiles’ stay, the fridge would have remained dishearteningly empty of appropriate and health-conscious food, like vegetables or fruit. Therefore, Stiles had taken it upon himself to not only grocery shop, but also cook. Derek was on dish duty. He found it soothing to scrub away the grime.

With Stiles at the grocery store, the house was blissfully quiet, which gave the other occupants a brief reprise from his constant chatter. Not that either of them minded Stiles’ ability to ramble for hours because the alternative was an empty house, and they had both lived through the silence long enough.

As it was, Derek was stretched out barefoot across the couch, legs crossed at the ankles and one arm tucked behind his head, to catch up on his reading since he hadn’t been reading while they were on the road as often as he liked. He flipped to the next page with his thumb and chuckled at the characters’ misfortune. 

The Sheriff was in the basement wrestling with the washing machine. Derek had offered to put on a load for him, but he insisted John had insisted he could handle washing his own underwear. Occasionally, an annoyed curse and thunk reached the werewolf’s ears.

In the distance, the dull roar of a motorbikes engine cut through the peace of the afternoon. It drew closer. Derek paused mid page turn to glance up, listening to the familiar sound, and then sighed before he went back to reading, more interested in his book than an uninvited guest.

The engine cut in front of the house. A few moments later, the door, and Scott walked in as if he had the right.

“Stiles isn’t home,” Derek said without glancing up.

“Good,” Scott replied. He glanced around the empty house, then stopped several feet from the couch, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “We need to talk.”

“Do we now.” Derek closed the book, but didn’t bother to sit up or greet the True Alpha that had disrupted his peace and quiet. At least Stiles’ advances would have been welcome. A mid-morning blowjob was always a nice surprise. “Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

Scott paused, mouth hanging open in confusion, but made no move to sit, still standing at the end of the couch. “I already came in.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. Though he probably shouldn’t have been. But Scott didn’t give Derek time to retort, instead launching into an obviously rehearsed speech. 

“Look, man,” Scott started. “You need to back off. I know you two are friends or something now, and you travelled and stuff, but Stiles is back where he belongs, and he’s not gonna run off again when you decide to pick up and leave again.”

Derek’s eyebrows rose impossibly higher.

“I get that you guys have been playing detective all over the country, or whatever it was you were doing, but now that he’s home, things can go back to normal.” Scott finally stopped to take a breath.

“You mean fear for his life, be abandoned by his so-called best friend, and wake up screaming every night?” Derek countered, and Scott flinched as if he had been struck.

The muffled bangs and cursing downstairs had gone silent.

“You weren’t here. You don’t know what we went through,” Scott said. “Now that Stiles is back, he’ll get back together with Lydia again and move on with his life and the pack, just like it’s supposed to be.”

“And their choice means nothing?” Derek asked. “Lydia’s dating Jordan.”

Scott blinked. His mouth opened and closed several times before he managed to stutter “Parrish? What? No. She... she would have told me.”

“So they weren’t on a date last night when Stiles and I ran into them?” Derek finally sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the couch. He tossed his book onto the coffee table where it landed on a short stack of policing and sports magazines. “Not keeping very good tabs on your pack, are you.”

“I- what?”

Derek snorted. “Lydia moved on. So has Stiles. And as far as I know, who Stiles does and does not date is none of our business.” Derek stood up from the couch and headed for the kitchen. Beer was on thing the Sheriff seemed to have kept stocked in Stiles’ absence. “Message delivered. I’m sure you can-”

Scott stepped in front of Derek to block his retreat to the kitchen. “It will be soon.”

“Pardon?” Derek said in low, dangerous voice.

Squaring his shoulders for a fight, Scott tilted his uneven jaw down so that it unconsciously protected his throat. “Who Stiles dates and what he does. If it affects the pack, it’ll be my business soon.”

“I highly doubt that,” Derek said with a sure smirk.

Scott’s eyes flashed red. “Back off.”

“Get out,” Derek ordered. He doesn’t so much as growl or flash his own eyes in response, still completely in control unlike the bitten pup in front of him.

“This isn’t your territory,” Scott snarled around his fangs. He advanced, claws drawn.

The Sheriff stepped out from behind the basement door he’d been listening to the entire conversation behind. “No, but it is mine,” John said. He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at the boy he’d helped raise like son. “I think you should leave.”

With a final snarl, Scott stormed out of the house. The front door slammed behind him. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he growled for Derek’s ears only.

The twin tension in both men’s shoulders loosened at the sound of the motorcycle engine roaring to life in the driveway. It slowly faded into the distance.

John retrieved two beers from the fridge, cracked them open, and handed one off to Derek. He took a seat at the table and set the bottle down in front of him. A bead of condensation dripped down the cold glass. “He doesn’t know?” 

First taking a sip while he thought over his answer, Derek took a seat across from the Sheriff. “They fell out of touch.”

They sat together in companionable silence until the rumble of the Jeep pulling into the driveway, and the familiar clatter of Stiles bursting through the front door and yelling about a broccoli sale brought them out of their heads and back to the present. 

 

Things at home had been tense. Both the Sheriff and Derek refused to tell Stiles about Scott’s unwanted visit and subsequent dismissal, and Stiles was the one on the other side of a stony silence he didn’t understand. Though both were quick to assure him that nothing was wrong and it wasn’t his fault, it did nothing to quell Stiles’ anxiety that something was amiss, which in turn only added to his stress over his future refusal of Scott’s invalid courtship.

After Stiles had scrubbed every surface in the kitchen three times until his fingers cracked and bled, Derek dragged Stiles out of the house for some much needed relaxation. The scent of Stiles’ blood wafting through the house was not something he wanted a repeat experience of. 

Derek had scarred John with the sight of his wet naked body streaking down the stairs and into the kitchen after he jumped out of the shower at the first hint of blood. Still, the Sheriff found a towel to offer the werewolf while Derek pried Stiles’ hands off the stained sponge.

“Stiles, baby,” Derek murmured. A puddle formed on the linoleum under his feet, but he patiently stole the sponge from Stiles and gently kissed the bleeding fingers. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then we’ll go play catch, okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles insisted. He tried to tug his hand out of Derek’s, but the chemicals from the cleaners stung the fresh cuts, and Stiles was helpless to watch the black veins creep up Derek’s arm.

While he attempted not look, not particularly interested in catching anymore of an eyeful of Derek than he already had, John gingerly wrapped the light blue towel around Derek’s waist and tucked the corner in.

The towel slid off Derek’s hips halfway up the stairs, and John groaned, covering his face with a hand after witnessing Derek’s bare ass ascend the stairs as he ushered Stiles up to the bathroom to clean and bandage his fingers. Nudity just wasn’t a concern with born wolves.

Stiles’ fingers were cleaned and bandaged, and the last of the soap in Derek’s hair rinsed. Derek didn’t bother with clothes. He quickly packed Stiles’ sports bag with a change of clothes for later, Stiles’ lacrosse stick, and a few balls before he shifted. He nudged Stiles hip to urge him forward.

Grumbling to himself, Stiles hefted the bag onto his shoulder and struggled down the stairs with Derek loping along beside him, tongue hanging out. He rolled his eyes, but ran a hand through Derek’s fur.

“We’re going to play catch, apparently,” Stiles announced to his dad. He winced when he noticed his dad wringing out the bloody sponge. “Sorry.”

John offered his son a wry smile. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo,” he said. He tossed the sponge into the sink and dried his hands on a floral print dish towel Claudia had picked out when they first got married. It was a little thread bare, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. He clapped Stiles on the shoulder and patted Derek on his shaggy head. “Take care of him, will ya?”

Derek huffed, and nudged Stiles towards the door.

“Alright, alright. I’m going.” Stiles swatted at Derek, but the wolf bounced out of reach. 

The ride to the lacrosse field was quiet. Derek couldn’t respond beyond a casual wave of his tail or an excited bark, and Stiles didn’t bother with the radio, but he did crank down the windows for Derek to hang his head out of. 

By the time they reached the lacrosse field, the sun was directly overhead, and Derek had swallowed two bugs while trying to bite the air. He didn’t bother waiting for Stiles to open the door for him, instead jumped out the open window and tore off in the direction of the field. He sat by the open gate and waited for Stiles, tail thumping against the ground.

“You know, I can think of better ways to expend all this extra energy you seem to have,” Stiles said. He lugged the oversized sports bag onto the field and dropped it gratefully onto the grass. “Why can’t you ever do the heavy lifting huh? Make the skinny human do it.”

Derek barked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sexy. I got it.” Stiles grinned down at Derek when the wolf buried his nose in Stiles’ crotch. “Still weird when you do that.”

Derek bounded off, occasionally zooming back past the human plunked down in the middle of the field to stretch every few minutes to check on him. Each time, the small breeze created ruffled Stiles’ unstyled shaggy hair. 

Stiles dug out his lacrosse stick and a ball. “Ready, big guy?”

 

 

 


	3. Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings in endnotes

By the time they reached the lacrosse field, the sun was directly overhead, and Derek had swallowed two bugs while trying to bite the air with his shaggy head hanging out the window. He didn’t bother waiting for Stiles to open the door for him, instead jumped out the open window and tore off in the direction of the field. He sat patiently by the open gate and waited for Stiles, tail thumping against the ground.

“You know, I can think of better ways to expend all this extra energy you seem to have,” Stiles said. He lugged the oversized sports bag onto the field and dropped it gratefully onto the grass. “Why can’t you ever do the heavy lifting huh? Make the skinny human do it.”

Derek barked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sexy. I got it.” Stiles grinned down at Derek when the wolf buried his nose in Stiles’ crotch. “Still weird when you do that.”

Derek bounded off, occasionally zooming back past the human plunked down in the middle of the field to stretch every few minutes to check on him. Each time, the small breeze created by his speed ruffled Stiles’ unstyled shaggy hair. 

Stiles dug out his lacrosse stick and a ball. “Ready, big guy?”

Standing stock still several feet away, Derek waited. His sole attention on Stiles. Even the buzz of a fly at his right ear couldn’t distract him.

With a snap of his wrist, Stiles deftly sent the ball arching down the field with more skill and surety than he ever had in high school. Derek shot off like a bullet after the prize. That’s how Scott found them twenty minutes later; Stiles casually throwing the ball as far as he could with his lacrosse stick while Derek chased it down.

Derek landed gracefully back on the field, fully rotated to race back to Stiles with the ball trapped in his jaw, but by the time all four paws hit the ground, he casually trotted back to Stiles, mindful of the True Alpha approaching. He dropped the ball at Stiles’ feet and waited.

Stiles picked up the ball, spun the stick in his hand, then flung the ball in the complete opposite direction of where he had just thrown it. Chunks of grass flew up as Derek’s paws dug into the earth for traction as he shot off after the new throw.

“How’d you find me?” Stiles asked. He’d spent enough time around werewolves to sense their presence without looking. “Sniff me out?”

“Course not,” Scott said, moderately offended by the insinuation that he would use his supernatural sense to do so. A trait that set Scott apart from other werewolves, and not necessarily in a good way. “Your Dad said you were here. Thought we could play, but... is that Derek?”

The black wolf leapt into the air and caught the ball delicately between his teeth before he landed. Instead of sprinting back to Stiles’ side, he lingered, casually meandering back towards Stiles and Scott.

“It’s training, kinda: speed, agility, accuracy, height,” Stiles replied. He spun his lacrosse stick and swatted at a seeding dandelion. Whoever was charged with maintaining the field obviously slacked off during the summer. “I’m mean, it’s fun too. He likes to show off a bit, ya know. S’cool when we have a crowd. Kids love it.”

“It’s not like, I dunno, demeaning or something?” Scott asked. His nose was scrunched up like something smelled.

“No way, dude. He even rolls over for them and lets them scratch his belly and everything,” Stiles said. “Though one little girl did accidentally grab his balls... was a bit awkward... I think the parents freaked out more than she did though.”

“You’re joking, right?” Scott said somewhat incredulous.

Stiles frowned. “Derek likes kids,” he said slowly. “I mean, not like likes them as in the weird accidental ball groping was a good thing. So not. But like, you know, came from a big family and all, kinda, like.”

After a few seconds, the message seemed to really sink in because Scott’s shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” Stiles drawled. 

Super slow, Derek trotted over and dropped the ball at Stiles’ feet, then tilted his head to the side in silent question. 

Stiles ran his finger through the soft fur, scratching behind Derek’s ears and under his chin. “Yeah. Okay. It’ll be fine,” he responded as if Derek had asked him aloud. “I got this. See you at home?”

With a short bark of confirmation, Derek licked Stiles' fingers, then raced off into the surrounding woods with the flick of a tail. In seconds, he disappeared into the shadows and out of sight in the opposite direction of the Stilinski home.

“Where’s he going?” Scott asked.

Stiles twirled his stick again and sighed. He needed to talk to Scott privately, and Derek was giving him the opportunity, but that didn’t mean Stiles liked watching him run off without him. The small town peace and quiet were deceptive in Beacon Hills. Who really knew what lay in wait in the trees.

“For a run. Stretch his legs?” Stiles offered. Scott had never quite grasped the concept of becoming one with the wolf, or the freedom. He’d always adamantly insisted he was still human, but the truth was, he wasn’t. Stiles got it, and Derek, who had always been a werewolf, knew no different. “So, you wanna play? Gotta warn you, I’m pretty badass now.”

Scott snorted and clapped Stiles on the shoulder. “Sure you are.”

“Oh, you’re on.” Stiles tossed Scott the extra lacrosse stick from his bag, and before Scott had even caught it, scooped up the ball and tore off down the field towards the empty goal.

Half an hour later, Stiles was dying. He collapsed onto the field, sprawling on his back in the grass, soaked in sweat, and gasping for air like he was an out of shape freshman at his first lacrosse practice. At least he wasn’t going to puke. 

However, Scott hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“God damn werewolves,” Stiles panted. He flung his lacrosse gloves at Scott, who easily sidestepped the lethargically thrown projectiles. “This is the exact reason I don’t run with Derek anymore.”

Scott couldn’t stop grinning. “Total badass,” he said. “Oh, hey. I got you something. Hope it didn’t get crushed when you tripped and fell on me earlier.”

Stiles gasped in faux hurt. “That was a tackle. I took you down.”

“Uh huh.” Scott tossed a small bundle he dug out of his pocket. It hit Stiles in the middle of his chest, making the human grunt despite it weighing next to nothing.

The small wrapped bundle of dried leaves was a sage smudging stick used to cleanse and purify. Barely worth more than a few bucks at a new age or commercial magic store. Stiles picked held the stick between two fingers and studied the dried and folded leaves, and the white string that bound it together. 

A reliable sage smudging requires sage that is picked, dried, and bound with intent. Any magic user would grow and pick their own for personal use because commercial growers would only be intent on profit, not the purity of the herbal attributes.  

“I remembered that Deaton said that sage cleanses dark aura, and well...” Scott shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “You know.”

Stiles was quiet for a moment. “I do?” he said, not quite meaning for it to sound like a question. He knew what Scott was referring to, but the implication was insulting.

Darkness tainting his magic had always been a fear. Stiles refused to succumb to the influence of the Nogitsune and all matter of hell that rampaged through his life and forced him along for the ride. His magic was his will, and his will was to protect and love.

A few years ago, Derek had bought Stiles a small window box to grow his own herbs and plants. It now hung off the window ledge of his childhood bedroom he was temporarily sharing with Derek while they dealt with renovations at the loft. Derek had wanted to buy a new place, but Stiles convinced him to abandon the loft would erase the presence of their fallen packmates, and the best way to honour them would be to remember them, even if they carried that scar for the rest of their lives.

“Anyway,” Scott said, interrupting Stiles wandering thoughts as he studied the ill-wrapped bundle of sage. “The full moon is soon. A few days, I think. So we can complete the bond. I know I still have one gift left, and then your formal acceptance, but things are looking good.”

“Scott, about that-” Stiles tried. He propped himself up on his elbows, but Scott barreled on.

“Don’t worry,” Scott said. He waved off Stiles’ concern. “I’ve talked to Deaton about the details. Everything is taken care of. You don’t have to do a thing. Just show up. It’s all good.”

Anytime Stiles tried to interject, Scott cut him off. He wasn’t listening to a word Stiles had to say, and the True Alpha expected Stiles to serve as his emissary; his advisor. Scott didn’t even trust Stiles to plan the ceremony that would bind emissary and alpha, which led Stiles to wonder why Scott even insisted that he wanted Stiles as his emissary. It had to be Deaton’s influence because the retired druid had an inkling of the power Stiles possessed, and that power had only increased through years of careful training and exercise of control. Binding Stiles to an alpha would not only increase the alpha’s strength, but also Stiles’ power greatly. 

“No, seriously, Scott,” Stiles tried again. He sat up and began to climb to his feet. “We need to-”

Scott’s phoned vibrated in his pocket, then chimed brightly.

“Oh crap,” Scott said after glanced at the incoming message. “I totally forgot that I need to drop dinner off at the hospital for my mom before I pick up Malia tonight. I’ll catch you later, man.”

“Wait, Scott!” Stiles called, but the werewolf was already jogging off the field. “We really need to talk...” he finished in a mumbled to himself. Scott was already across the parking lot and disappearing down the block.

Alone, Stiles collapsed back into the grass, grunting softly when his back hit the soft ground, and blindly aimed the smudge stick in the general direction of his bag. One arm behind his head, Stiles watched the clouds streaked across the sky like someone had smeared them with a paintbrush. A chill prickled his skin as the sheen of sweat coating his skin began to cool.

A cold nose prodded at Stiles’ arm. Stiles all but screamed. His heart rabbeted in his chest as he shot upright. “Oh my God!”

Derek grinned wolfishly around his fangs, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth in amusement. No matter what, Stiles never changed. Lying down in the grass, Derek propped his chin on Stiles’ thigh, body trembling in what would have been a laugh if he had been human.

“You’re an asshole,” Stiles muttered, but flopped back onto the ground. Absentmindedly, his hand lazily scratched behind Derek’s ears and played with his fur. “Thought I said I’d meet you at home?”

Derek whined softly. He inched up on his haunches until his nose bumped the underside of Stiles’ chin.

“Yeah. Good call,” Stiles sighed. “Thanks, big guy.”

They lay together, the sun slowly sinking lower in the sky as they enjoyed each other’s company. Stiles’ phone buzzed against his leg.

_ “You guys home for dinner tonight?” _ the Sheriff asked when Stiles answered.

“Hmmm?” Stiles hummed, his fingers playing with Derek’s ears. The wolf’s head was on Stiles’ chest, his wide eyes studying Stiles’ every move.

“ _ Cause if not, I’m fine ordering in.” _

“Yeah, sure- what? No! We’ll be home in ten minutes. Don’t you dare! I bought bison burgers for the barbeque. They’re lean and healthy, but delicious,” Stiles said.

“ _ I get to grill?” _ the Sheriff asked, absolutely delighted, and Derek chuffed in amusement.

 

The Sheriff’s breath fogged in the early morning air. For mid-spring, it was still a tad cold and his county-issued jacket wasn’t quite cutting it against the chill even as the sun slowly peeked over the horizon. Fat load of good it would do him hiking through the middle of the preserve in search of a body when barely any light penetrated the thick canopy. A branch cracked underfoot, the sharp sound silencing the morning songbirds for a few short seconds. He swept his flashlight across the path in front of him and found nothing but dried branches.

Two hikers found a body in the woods and called it in a little after six in the morning. With another potentially disembowelled body in the woods, John wasn’t taking any chances with any other deputies. Talk about deja vu.  The loss of life in the line of duty was too high for Beacon Hills, but Parrish was uniquely qualified for the position.

“Anything?” John called to his deputy who crunched through the underbrush several feet ahead of him. He was cold just looking at Parrish. The young deputy wore his short-sleeved uniform, and nothing else. Apparently, he ran hot being a hellhound and all. John still wasn’t sure what that meant.

Stiles had tried to explain the realm of supernatural hiding in Beacon Hills at one point without the use of his chessboard. It had gone about as well as had been expected, but he understood the main talking points.

“No sir,” Parrish called back. He didn’t have the heightened sense of smell that werewolves possessed, but again, they couldn’t willfully burst into flames. It was a trade-off. “Wait. I hear something. This way!”

The sound of voices eventually reached John’s human ears. Two people arguing, a man and a woman; the hikers that had called in the body in all likelihood.

John cautiously approached, hand lightly resting on his gun, but he didn’t draw his weapon. “Hello?” he called, and the hikers fell silent. “I’m Sheriff John Stilinski and this here is Deputy Parrish. You two called in a possible dead body, is that right?”

For several long seconds, neither of the hikers said anything. They were dressed for the weather with small backpacks, water bottles attached to the straps, and lights strapped to their forehead. Stiles would have laughed himself silly at the sight of them. 

The young woman was trembling as she hugged herself, but managed to unfreeze enough to motion behind her and her companion. “Yeah. Yeah, over there. It’s... I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“It’s like she was ripped open,” the man said so softly that John almost didn’t hear him. Judging by the puddle of bile a few feet away, both hikers were in shock. 

“She?” Parrish questioned. 

“I’m pre-med at Stanford,” the man said. He tucked his hands under his armpits and stared down at his feet. “Definitely a she. Someone pulled out her uh... lady bits.”

“Uterus, Steve. It’s her uterus.” The young woman smacked Steve’s arm. “God, who would do such a thing. It’s just so, oh my god.”

“Any particular reason you’re hiking through the middle of the preserve before dawn?” John asked. Neither appeared to be intoxicated or high, but he would be remiss if he did not do his duty and check.

“The sunrise,” the young woman answered. “We were heading for the bluff. I wanted to get a few photos for my final portfolio. Not exactly original, but... you know.”

“Uh huh.” Sheriff Stilinski nodded for Parrish to stay with the two witnesses while he went to investigate the possible dead body. He found it twenty feet from the two hikers at the base of a large deciduous tree that had only begun to bud.

Ripped open didn’t quite do the image justice. The body was still mostly intact, cold, dead eyes staring off to the left as if someone had attempted to take a pulse, but the victim showed evidence of scavengers picking apart the soft tissue; most likely coyote, crows, and other carrion animals. She couldn’t have been laying in the forest longer than a day, maybe two given the cool temperatures and shade of the woods.

The stench of decay nearly knocked John over when he crouched down beside her body. Her abdomen had indeed been sliced open, and the majority of her lower internal organs were spilling out, some clearly from the scavenging, but like Steve had mentioned, it appeared her womb had been removed and dissected.

“Ah, hell,” John groaned, and wiped a hand across his mouth. He slowly made his way back where Parrish waited with the two witnesses. “This is beyond me. Escort these two to the station and take their statements.”

Parrish nodded and gestured for the two hikers to head back towards the main road. “What are you going to do, sir?” he asked.

“Call in an expert,” the Sheriff answered.

For a moment, Parrish stood still, processing the information, then nodded. “Right, sir.”

John waited for the hikers to be herded out of sight before he pulled out his cell rather than radio the body in. He hit speed dial 2, and waited, listening to the sounds of the forest slowly waking up with the rising sun.

“ _ Hello?” _ a soft, sleepy voice answered.

Smiling softly, John turned back in the direction of the body. “Sorry to wake you, son, but I need you to meet me in the preserve. I’ll send you the coordinates.”

“ _ Der?”  _ a second voice called distantly. “ _ Who is it?” _

 

The rustle of leaves and crack of twigs disrupted to peaceful morning melody of songbirds in the trees. John dusted off his pants where he had been seated on a nearby log while he waited. His hand rested lightly on his gun, not ready to drop his guard. Whatever had done this could still be out there, but his hand dropped to his side when a sleek black wolf melted out of the shadowy underbrush and gracefully descended the slight slope.

“Hey, kid,” the Sheriff greeted while he studied the sudden appearance of the wolf. “This is gonna make communication a bit difficult.”

Derek stopped and turned back, ears trained on the direction he’d come from.

“You didn’t.” John sighed when his own son shoved through the foliage.

“Sup, pops.” Stiles waved as he shuffled awkwardly down the slope. His foot hit a loose rock and he lost his balance. Arms flailing to steady him, he landed on his butt in the dirt and leaves. “Ow.”

Derek snorted, but obligingly went to Stiles’ side to help the human down the nearly flat incline.

“You’re the one that brought him,” John pointed out.

“Hey!” Stiles pointed at his father with his free hand, the other tightly gripping Derek by the scruff to keep his balance when he missed his step, again. “I’m an asset, I’ll have you know. Besides, who else would carry the clothes?”

Derek barely waited for Stiles to hit level ground before he was shifting, fur receding and bones snapping back into place. Stiles swung the bag off his back and dug out a pair of jeans and a soft t-shirt, which he tossed blindly in Derek’s direction.

“Christ, kid. I’ve seen more than you the last few days than I care to,” John said. He turned his back on the pair. “You couldn’t just arrive human?”

“We did a preliminary sweep of the surrounding area,” Stiles said as he fished out Derek’s boots while the werewolf buttoned the fly of his jeans.

Derek shook out his shirt and tugged it on over his head. “I didn’t catch any scents. Rained last night. But she’s definitely a Were,” he said, nodding in the general direction of the decomposing corpse. “I could smell the remains a mile out. It’s going to draw predators.”

“Looks like it already did,” Stiles said as he crept closer to the body.

“Hey, no. You get away from there,” the Sheriff said. He swiped at his son, trying to catch a hold of his hoodie, but Stiles easily sidestepped him from years of practice.

“I’d have to check with Malia to be sure, but the three corner puncture marks kinda point to coyote,” Stiles continued. He pulled out his phone and snapped a few pictures. “Not to mention crows. I’m surprised the eyes are still intact. Nice juicy bits like that usually go first, but it could be the magic-y mojo going on in there.”

“There is no magic-y mojo,” Derek muttered as he finished tying his shoes.

“Dude, your eyes legit change colour,” Stiles said. He pulled out a pair of blue latex gloves from his back pocket and snapped them into place so he could gently peel back the stiff upper lip. “The fang glands are congruent with the scent Derek picked up on her, but because of that, it’s difficult to give a definitive age. Werewolf genes don’t age naturally.   But, indirect sunlight, moderate level of insect activity, and little scavenging at this stage in decomp point to her being out here for barely a day. Early last night, probably.”

The Sheriff scrubbed his hand across his face, digging the heel of his palm into his eyes. “What the hell, Stiles.”

Derek crouched down on the other side of the body and inhaled. “No wolfsbane or any other foreign scents. Any footprints have been washed away or compromised by scavengers,” he reported. “We can’t rule out hunters or another Were, but...”

“We can’t know for sure because of the rain,” John sighed.

“Yes, but I was going to say she was pregnant,” Derek said, and the Sheriff fell silent. “The scent lingers. She was potentially alone, scared, and in labour.”

The sudden quiet was disrupted by the squelch of Stiles carefully examining the innards spilled down young woman’s lower body. “This is her womb,” he said. He gently inspected the mutilated organs. “A sharp instrument was used to cut in and oh my god...”

“Someone took her baby,” Derek breathed out as the weight of loss settled over him, his entire body slouching in dismay.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to this town.” John leaned heavily against a nearby tree. 

Stiles continued to sift through the remains, inspecting each little piece to build a larger picture like he had been for months on the road with Derek. “Her attacker was left handed. Sliced her open from here.” He mimed the attack as if an assailant made a quick incision from right to left. “To here. Not skilled or precise. Very rough, like they were shaking, or she struggled. This was done with great difficulty. No other signs of trauma.”

“What kind of sick son of a bitch would steal a pregnant woman’s baby?” the Sheriff asked. 

“A hunter,” Derek said softly. It had been common on the road. Not taking a pregnant werewolf’s baby, but seeing first hand the torture and mutilation of his own kind at the hands of hunters and others. It was too late to save his own family, but he could try to preserve others. “A hunter would. The father of the child? A pack member? Her alpha? If she was pregnant and on the run, someone had to be chasing her.”

In Utah, Derek and Stiles had found a young couple from rival packs on the run from a traditional alpha who had chased them from North Dakota when they had entered a courtship without the blessing of their alphas. While not common now, the practice of negotiation had been pack law and all matings required the blessing of the alpha. Only strict traditionalist packs upheld the old laws which often saw young pack members bartered for alliances like pawns. Derek’s pack had been family. To hand anyone off to another pack for a loveless mateship would have been horrific, though several old packs had inquired after both him and Laura.

“But why wouldn’t she heal?” the Sheriff asked. He inched closer, morbidly curious, but also hesitant. “She’s a werewolf, right? You guys heal.”

“She couldn’t,” Stiles answered when Derek failed to find a reasonable cause. “She was already in labour when something went wrong. I don’t think the person stole the baby.” His hands skimmed down her arms searching for any clue as to her circumstances that night. “She died in childbirth. Too exhausted, she didn’t have the energy to heal, and she bled out.”

Derek frowned, his brow scrunching. “It’s possible.”

“Not possible,” Stiles said pointing a bloody latex finger at his boyfriend. “Probable.” He sighed and dropped his hand back to her right hand. “And it gets worse.”

“How could it possibly be any worse?” John asked his son with clear skepticism. Not that he had any reason to doubt his son because Stiles’ morbid curiosity had lead to more than one case being solved.

“Her assailant wasn’t lefthanded like the evidence suggests because...”  Stiles held up her right hand to display a single bloody clawed finger. It was an impressive feat. No other finger was clawed which showed immense self-control while under the excruciating pain of childbirth. “She did it to herself.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:
> 
> Dead body - a little bloody and gory, mostly described through a medical perspective of which I have no experience with.
> 
> Mutilation - Pregnant women's womb has been removed and cut open. The baby is missing.
> 
> I hope I'm not missing anything, I really don't want to trigger anyone, and I'm speaking from experience. It kind of ruins fanfic for you for a while when that happens.


	4. Question

After a late lunch, the Stilinski house was filled by the quiet of running water, the gentle clink dishes, and the soft flip of pages. After a thorough inspection of the young woman’s body, Stiles and Derek made themselves scarce so the Sheriff could call in a legitimate forensic unit. By the time they emerged from the woods, one of them covered in dirt, and not the one that liked to roll in it as a wolf, the sun had been high in the sky.  They weren’t any closer to solving the case; they had more questions than answers surrounding the apparent self-mutilation of the body.

Stiles and Derek had gone home to take a short nap before the walkthrough with the contractor Derek had hired to remodel the building. First, Stiles had taken a shower, at Derek’s insistence. The no dirty paws rule extended to humans too. 

An empty house allowed Derek to ease a restless Stiles to sleep with a little care and attention. Their scent lingered. Luckily, Derek was the only occupant of the house that could smell the mix of their earlier copulation, and he revelled in the scent of a content and sated mate.

An hour later, Derek was finishing off the dishes at the sink while Stiles sat at the kitchen table like his father often had, his half-finished sandwich at his elbow and the case files, photos, and notes scattered across the surface. The Sheriff was still at the station buried under a pile of new paperwork that came with the discovery of an unidentified victim in the Preserve. A healthy packed lunch of carrot sticks, hummus, and a whole grain turkey sandwich sat on the counter beside the sink for Derek and Stiles to take into the station in half an hour on their way out. 

The appointment with the contractor to inspect the loft and run through an estimate for the renovation of the entire building was a three. Not that price was a factor. Derek had more than enough money to rebuild the entire town of Beacon Hills several times over, but rebuilding the loft had been their first serious argument as a couple. 

Stiles and Derek rarely fought. They bickered, made sarcastic quips, and called each other idiots when necessary which went hand in hand with their oddly-loving, antagonistic romance of give and take. But, allowing Derek to take sole fiscal responsibility for all renovations to their home had been the tipping point. 

After the loss of his mother at a young age, Stiles had taken on more responsibility than any eight-year-old should by stepping into the role of caregiver. As much as his father loved him and took care of him, Stiles reciprocated tenfold. Allowing Derek to take care of him was not something Stiles couldn’t idly accept when his nature demanded he do the same in return. But how could he possibly compete with the infinite source of wealth and funds of the Hale Pack when the Stilinski house was still in debt from hospital bills?

Derek simply wanted to provide for his pack. He had no one to nurture beyond the Stilinskis, a wayward sister, and a possibly insane uncle. If neither John nor Stiles would allow him to pay off their debts despite it being a minuscule amount to what he had sitting in the bank, then he would provide a home and a future for him and Stiles. It had been a hard-earned victory in battle, but a compromise had been reached in the form of a business venture.

The old building was a decent investment. The units could be rented out to low-income families in need of a home with Derek as the landlord, and the ground floor would be open for lease to various retail outlets, including an office for Stiles’ own business: Spark PI. Since Derek had his own income to manage, Stiles insisted that he pay rent to Derek for the office space he’d be leasing, and that had been found acceptable despite the fact that the money would be going directly back into their own joint household account they had set up on the road for ease.

“But where’s the baby?” Stiles mumbled. Derek hummed reassuringly at the sink while Stiles studied the series of photos he’d taken of the scene with the intent to find the clue they had missed. This was their first unofficial case in Beacon Hills, and nothing made sense.

The official autopsy report that his father emailed to him was congruent with Stiles’ initial assessment that the woman in the Preserve had bled out.  The coroner could not ascertain what instrument had been used to make the gruesome incision to remove the baby, though, especially since the wounds appeared to have more in common with the animal attacks Beacon Hills was infamous for. 

Stiles had taken special care to remove the single claw from the dead omega’s hand and destroy it with a short burst of magic that burnt the claw into ash in a matter of seconds before the body was officially taken into police custody. It was for the best. The world, while possibly suspect, was not ready for the supernatural, not when differing religious views, sexuality, and gender brought on war, revolution, and destruction.

“Finish your sandwich,” Derek said. He dried a cup with a floral print dish towel and set the glass on the dishrack beside the sink. “We need to leave in twenty minutes, and I don’t want to listen to your stomach grumble the entire time.”

“Huh, yeah. Sure,” Stiles muttered. He blindly reached for his sandwich and munched quietly while his attention remained fixed on the second page of the latest notes sent by the sheriff’s department. “No other DNA was found on the scene. Not even the baby. So, whoever found it...”

Derek turned around, hands dripping, when Stiles trailed off. He had a tendency to forget to complete his sentences if his mind had already leapt several steps ahead. The distant rumble of an engine caught his attention. He tilted his head to the side and listened. “Scott’s coming.”

“Good. Good,” Stiles mumbled. “That’s good.”

“No, that’s bad. We have to leave in... fifteen minutes,” Derek said after a quick glance at the time on the stove. “Have you finished your lunch?”

“Uh huh. Yup. Good, great, sure,” Stiles said, still only partially-eaten sandwich dangling from his fingers as he poured over the scene report in reference to the photos he’d taken. Something wasn’t quite right. “Malia said the post-mortem bite marks I sent her a picture of were most def coyote, but she also said that they would have eaten more of the tissue given how scarce this winter was. Beacon Hills saw low activity in the preserve this year, supernatural, natural, or otherwise. Lydia’s been tracking movement and migration in the area.”

Over the years, Stiles and Malia had kept in contact, but surprisingly, she had kept more in touch with her cousins, some of the few family members she had left. Her father, Derek’s uncle Peter, wasn’t often a topic of discussion by anyone, but all three Hales and Stiles had some form of contact with him, even if there hadn’t been a sighting in several months. Not that it wouldn’t be easy enough to find him. He had an apartment downtown.

Derek sighed through his nose. He picked up the last plate to wash just as Scott’s motorcycle pulled into the driveway.

As usual, Scott let himself in the front door like nothing had changed in the last few years. Stiles didn’t look up, too engrossed in his research, and Derek pointedly ignored the True Alpha.

“Hey man,” Scott said. His nose wrinkled at the heavy scent of sex lingering in the house and he glanced in alarm at Derek’s back, but the born-wolf continued to ignore him. “I tried calling, but you weren’t picking up. Thought I’d stop by to make sure everything was okay.”

Stiles didn’t move, still mumbling to himself about the position of the body and blood splatter patterns being compromised by rain.

“Stiles? Uh, dude?” Scott snapped his fingers in front of Stiles’ face disrupting his hyper-focus on the case at hand and startling him with the abrupt appearance.

Stiles jumped. His arms flailed. The chair tilted backwards, and he shrieked, arms still windmilling to catch anything to prevent his fall, but Scott jumped backwards, startled by Stiles reaction.

The plate Derek had been holding clunked against the bottom of the kitchen sink. A soap sud covered hand caught the back of Stiles chair before the human plummeted to the floor. Derek sighed, again.

“Woah! Thanks, dude,” Stiles said. He patted Derek gratefully on the shoulder as the werewolf righted the chair for him and returned to the sink to rinse the last plate. “Scott, man, when did you get here?”

“Uh, just now.” Scott scratched his cheek. “Thought you heard me come in. You getting into your dad’s files again?”

“Not exactly.” Stiles kicked one of the other chairs out from the table for Scott. “Take a load off, man. What’s up?”

Scott caught the chair propelled at him. “No, thanks. Look, can we talk?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s up? Something wrong?” Stiles asked. He casually gathered the evidence and tucked it away out of sight in a folder. “How’s Malia?”

“Huh? Fine. She’s fine.” Scott shrugged. “Getting ready for her final exam at the academy.”

Stiles squinted at Scott. “I know. I was on the phone with her for two hours last night talking her through basic procedure again,” Stiles said. “Still stressed?”

While Derek and Cora checked in with Malia, possibly more so than with Stiles, they hadn’t been the ones to slowly coach her through post-secondary education and the police academy exams. Currently, it was the entrance examination for the sheriff’s department. She easily met all the physical requirements, but struggled with the logic of the law, and she knew it. 

For the last few years, Malia hadn’t been able to hold down a steady job. She lived at home with her adoptive father who was just happy to have her home and alive after having believed her dead for so many years. She didn’t want to disappoint him any more than she already had, barely managing to scrape through high school and an associate’s degree at the local community college. Police work had been Lydia’s idea. A boss that knew her limits and abilities, one she trusted almost more than anyone, and a fellow supernatural partner. Parrish had been going on non-stop about it to the Sheriff, excited to have someone to watch his back.

“What? No,” Scott said, brushing off the idea that Malia would be worried about anything. “She was eating jerky and cheese puffs. Look, can we just talk?” He gestured to the living room off the kitchen and Stiles frowned. Cheese puffs were comfort food, one of the few beyond venison that Malia enjoyed.

Derek dried off the plate and set it in the rack with the other dishes he’d cleaned so he could follow Stiles into the living room. He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, watching Stiles hop over the back of the couch and perch on the arm of the chair.

“Kay, so, sup, dude?” Stiles asked. He laced his fingers together and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. “Derek and I gotta head out soon, so lay it on me.”

“I meant alone,” Scott said with an annoyed glance towards Derek casually observing at the door. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Please continue.” Derek gestured lazily for Scott to go on.

Scott’s mouth hung open for several seconds before he scrubbed at his chin. “This is private. I need to talk to Stiles alone.”

“No you don’t,” Derek responded.

“Yes, I do,” Scott growled.

“You really don’t,” Stiles said. “Anything you have to discuss can totally be said in front of Derek. Trust me. I’d tell him later anyway, and this way I don’t have to repeat the message. Well, that, and he can hear you from anywhere in the house anyway.”

“You told him?” Scott screeched. He stared wide-eyed at Stiles, his hands clutched on either side of his head. “Dude, that’s not cool. I’m not even sure that’s allowed. I think Deaton said something about that nullifying a contract or something. Crap, I need to talk to him. I need to find out if this can be fixed.”

“What? Scott, no. That doesn’t matter.” Stiles rose from his perch and reached for his supposed best friend.

“It doesn’t matter?” Scott was already halfway to the door. “Of course it matters. You could have ruined everything. Wait.” Scott paused long enough to dig a small bundle out of the pocket of his jeans and toss it at Stiles. “Just in case, take this. I’m going to make sure you didn’t ruin everything. I’ll be back.”

Stiles fumbled the bundle. By the time he firmly wrapped his fingers around the slightly damp cloth, Scott had already disappeared out the door. “Ah, hell.”

“You sound like your dad,” Derek said. He stepped up behind his boyfriend and wrapped an arm around his shoulder to reel him into a hug from behind.

A phone rang. The jingle chimed on the edge of Derek’s hearing. The werewolf stilled, arms still hugging Stiles to him as he focused in on the sound. Stiles was babbling away about terrible alpha’s that didn’t listen when he had something to say, but Derek was too focused on what was happening in the driveway.

“Chris called Scott.”

Stiles stopped talking.

“The hunters know about the body,” Derek whispered. If Scott was focused on the phone call, he likely wasn’t aware of what happened in the house. He never had fully honed his skills, not that Derek hadn’t tried to help multiple times. “They’re calling a meeting. Unarmed. Tomorrow night. Come alone.”

“Right. Brilliant,” Stiles muttered. He held up the damp cloth between two fingers, as far from his body as he could, and eyed it. “Oh god, please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

Derek’s nostrils flared. “An alpha’s sweat and musk,” he growled. He yanked the cloth out of Stiles loose grip and tossed it across the room where it landed in a small crumpled pile next to the leg of the Sheriff’s armchair, and then hoisted Stiles up off his feet and tossed him over his shoulder like he weighed no more than a stuffed bear.

“Yeah, yeah, big guy. All yours,” Stiles said as he patted Derek’s back, but the werewolf had already marched upstairs with his human prize in possession. “We’re dropping in on the claws and guns meet and greet tomorrow, right?”

Derek growled.

“Right.” Stiles sighed as if he were put out, but he grinned. “Talk later. Claim now.”

  
  


The dust made it difficult to breathe. A thin layer covered every inch of the loft as if it had sat untouched for years; their last moments in Beacon Hills suspended in time. Fingers loosely linked together, Stiles and Derek walked through the door to survey the damage before the contractor arrived. This had been their home, even for as briefly as it had been. It was a bittersweet homecoming.

Nothing had changed, and yet, everything had. Stiles and Derek were no longer the same shattered boys that left the nightmare of Beacon Hills behind to heal. John was just seemed happy to have them home. Long distance calls, skype, and facebook didn’t relay the warmth of a hug, the calming presence of a father, and the scent of contentment the same way that sitting around the dining table in the Stilinski home laughing at Stiles imitating a walrus with his chopsticks did.

The bed was rumpled, pillows askew, from their last night that they had spent together in town, bloody, bruised, and in need of comfort. Stiles had never made it back to the FBI. With Derek safe, or as safe as one of the remaining pureblood Hale werewolves could be, both he and Stiles had packed their bags and run.

The dust in the air, stirred by their arrival, itched and irritated Stiles’ nose. Sniffling, Stiles patted down the mattress, enveloping them both in a plume of dust that made Derek growl behind him. Stiles poked Derek in the ribs, then promptly sneezed.

“Oops,” Stiles said sheepishly rubbing his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Why is there so much dust? I mean, if it’s made primarily of dead skin cells, then where is it all coming from?”

Derek tentatively sniffed. The dust tickled his nose, but it was enough. “Peter, your dad, and... occasionally Malia,” he said. He stripped off the old sheets and dumped them in a pile on the floor beside the bed.

“Awesome.” Stiles face-planted on the comparatively-clean mattress. Flipping onto his back, he tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the four by four skylight in the ceiling. “This is gonna be awesome. Throw up a few walls and maybe an actual, functional kitchen with bonus kitchen table, and this could actually be pretty sweet.”

“Uh huh.” Derek crawled up the bed on his hands and knees, caging Stiles in. He nipped at his boyfriend’s lower lip and nosed at his throat, thoroughly scenting him. “You smell good.”

Stiles chuckled. “Don’t I smell like you?”

“Exactly,” Derek growled. “My shirt, my scent, my cum... my mate.” His teeth gently closed around Stiles jugular, the human baring his neck in submission.

“Not yet, but soon.” Stiles squeaked when Derek reared back, hooked his arms around Stiles’ leg, and dragged him down the mattress until Stiles’ legs hooked over Derek’s shoulders, and the werewolf’s cock intimately nestled up against his backside. “We don’t have time. The contractor-”

“Is not here yet,” Derek said and rolled his hips. Stiles whimpered. “But maybe I can finish what I started the other day?” He deftly popped open the button of Stiles’ fly and dove in for a kiss as he slid his hand up Stiles’ shirt until he could feel the coarse curls of chest hair and the rapidly pounding heartbeat that rang in his ears.

“Shit. Shit, yeah, okay,” Stiles groaned when Derek pulled back just enough to stare into his eyes and gain consent. A thin strand of saliva connected their lips until Stiles’ tongue darted out, wetting them again. “No chance of my dad catching us. We’re already here this time. And my ass is sore. I’m game.”

A low growl rumbled deep in Derek’s chest. His nose trailed down Stile’s throat to his bare chest where the borrowed henley had been rucked up under Stiles’ arms while he simultaneously tugged Stiles’ jeans and boxer briefs down to his thighs in one fluid movement.

Stiles propped his body up on his elbows in order to watch Derek’s mouth slowly engulf his cock. “Yeah...” he moaned. 

It didn’t take long. Years of practice and steady eye contact had Stiles spilling down Derek’s throat in a matter of minutes as Derek steadily worked him through his climax. Head tilted back, Stiles whimpered garbled praise to Derek, and his fingers sparked and crackled with excited magic as they dug into the mattress. The loft lights flickered weakly overhead, but held a steady glow. It didn’t matter that he’d cum twenty minutes ago on his knees in his childhood bedroom while Derek pinned him to the floor, ass in the air, and drilled him from behind.

Panting, Stiles collapsed onto his back, eyes closed, and let out a low, satisfied groan that echoed through the empty loft. “Damn, babe.”

Derek chuckled through his nose, mouth otherwise occupied as he lazily cleaned Stiles’ softening cock with his tongue until the human squirmed and whined. On his hands and knees again, Derek crawled up Stiles’ body, a pleased smirk on his lips. He kissed Stiles, soft and slow.

“I could use another nap,” Stiles mumbled against Derek’s lips. He gave Derek a dopey smile, then yawned and rolled onto his side reaching for the button of Derek’s jeans to return the favour.

“Contractor’s here. Later,” Derek said slapping Stiles’ bare thigh. “Arrived a few minutes ago.”

“Noooo... I hate you,” Stiles pouted. While he made no effort to aid his boyfriend in tugging up his boxers and zipping his jeans, he didn’t hinder him either, content to lay limply while Derek manhandled him. “I’m tired. Carry me.”

The lights glowed softly overhead.

“Uhhh...” Stiles blinked. His arms dropped back to the bed. “I thought the city cut the building’s power.”

An amused smirk curling the corner of his mouth, Derek hauled Stiles to sit on the edge of the mattress. “They did,” he said. He turned around and crouched for his boyfriend to clamber on to his back.

“Oops,” Stiles mumbled into Derek’s shoulder.

Derek stood up, hefting Stiles higher on his back, and firmly gripped his boyfriend’s skinny thighs. Stiles never had managed to put much meat on his bones. He paused at the door. “You going to undo it?”

Stiles sighed. “I guess. At least nothing exploded.” He sat up, arms loosely draped around Derek’s shoulders, and closed his eyes to focus. Slowly, the lights dimmed, then flickered, and went dark. “Better?” 

The only response Stiles received was a grunt. Magical mishaps weren’t all that uncommon, though few and far between now that Stiles had surpassed the lower levels of novice magic. He’d once turned Derek’s eyebrows green after commenting that they looked like bushy caterpillars, and it had taken three days of endless research and failures to turn them back. Derek had almost gone and bought hair dye, but then he’d have to have left the motel room with moss-brows. 

“Do you think we should offer my dad an apartment in the building?” Stiles suddenly said when they hit the second floor. “I mean, he’s all alone in the house. The house he bought with my mom, and with me... Us moving out...”

Derek’s gait only faltered for a moment. “We can offer, but it’s his choice,” he said. He gently squeezed Stiles’ thighs. “Sometimes... Sometimes you need that connection or you feel as if you’re betraying them somehow.”

“Oh, Der...” Stiles kissed his boyfriend’s scruffy cheek.

After Derek had lost his final family member, he’d lived out of the shell of his family’s home alone in the woods almost as a form of restitution, at least until he’d been compromised and forced to move on. The city had eventually reclaimed the land and demolished the house. Now it was an empty lot in the woods that nature had slowly begun to reclaim. It was better that way. 

“They’d want you to be happy,” Stiles said.

Derek huffed as they hit the foyer. “You should take your own advice.”

Outside, Stiles slid off Derek’s back. He wobbled a little on his feet, but a hand on his elbow steadied him. “Thanks, big guy. Alright.” He clapped his hands together and spun to find the contractor sitting in the cab of her truck. “Let’s get this show on the road. Papa wants an office.”

“Please never call yourself that again,” Derek grumbled, but trailed after Stiles when he went to greet the contractor.

 

Stiles impatiently jabbed the sixth-floor button of the elevator as if it would make the doors close faster until Derek caught his hand. Neither were particularly thrilled to make this particular visit. Stiles slouched against the mirrored wall and huffed.

“This was your idea,” Derek reminded him. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the floor.

“Yeah, well, the baby wasn’t handed over to the police or social services, but there was no evidence at the scene that says that the baby was killed or dragged off by animals, so whoever came across the kid knew what it was,” Stiles said. He drummed his fingers against the silver bar that ran the circumference of the elevator. “And who do we know that would possibly know where to purchase a newborn were-baby on the supernatural black market?”

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Derek said.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open onto the sixth floor.

“I don’t,” Stiles said as he stepped out of the lift. “Just unfortunate.”

At the end of the hall, Stiles knocked on the door marked 6A, one of the two penthouse suites in the building. The sharp rap echoed through the bare hall. Derek shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and scowled. 

The door cracked open wide enough for a bloodshot eye to peer out into the hallway. “Ahh... my nephew and his human pet,” Peter greeted in a rush. Derek growled. “I’m afraid I’m in no fit state to entertain. Some other time.”

Derek slammed his palm against the door to prevent Peter from slamming it in their faces, and shoved it open. His nostrils flared with the hint of a new scent, one that had no business being in Peter’s lair.

“What did you do,” Derek snarled. He shoved into the apartment, knocking his uncle off balance.

Peter’s hair was chaotic sticking out every which way, his clothes were wrinkled and creased, and there was a creamy stain on the shoulder of his designer v-neck. Stiles’ eyes narrowed. Peter had never been dishevelled a day in his life, even when threatening to murder innocent high school students.

Stiles’ mouth fell open. “No...” he said, putting two and two together. Completely disregarding the exhausted werewolf in the doorway, he raced after Derek into the apartment. “You’ve got to be shitting me!”

Tucked into a high-end wooden crib and swaddled in a purple polka-dot blanket that probably cost more than Stiles’ entire wardrobe was the missing, newborn were-pup, unharmed and asleep in the middle of the living room, at least until Stiles’ sudden outburst.

“Shhh!” Peter warned, but too late. The baby scrunched up her noses and eyes, and let out a piercing wail. He dived for the crib, ready to scoop up the crying baby, but Stiles blocked his path.

“Nope. No way.” Stiles threw his arms out as if he could somehow prevent a full-grown male werewolf from cutting right through him. But Peter was tired, and the oddity made him pause long enough that Derek managed to tug Stiles out of the way. “What? No. Derek!”

Derek tightened his grip around Stiles’ wrist to keep him at his side. “Wait.”

Unencumbered by the idiotic human, Peter scooped up the child, cradled her to his chest, and rocked gently with a bouncy step as he soothed her in a low, calm voice.

“Are you crazy?” Stiles hissed.

Derek quirked the corner of his mouth in an almost smile. “Trust me,” he said. He had already pulled out his phone and dialled. It rang in his ear. “Peter wasn’t just an uncle.”

_ “What.” _

“I’m sending you a picture.” Derek snapped a picture of Peter softly singing a lullaby from their maternal grandmother that Talia had sung to her own children. “You’re never going to believe this.”

“ _ I’m on my way.” _

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by inkandblade


	5. Answer

After Derek hung up the phone, he dragged Stiles out of the room and into the kitchen for the semblance of privacy while Peter soothed the distressed baby. The tiny wails quieted, and Peter gratefully collapsed onto the couch with the child cradled against his chest.

In the kitchen, Stiles and Derek held a hushed argument over Peter and the newly found missing baby that, regardless of their volume, Peter could still hear, but was content to ignore in favour of cuddling the sniffling baby drooling on his stained shirt. He closed his eyes and gently nuzzled the top of her soft fuzzy head and inhaled.

“What the hell was that?” Stiles demanded. He jabbed Derek in the chest with his finger. “This isn’t the time to be making social calls.”

Derek frowned; his hand tightened on around Stiles’ bicep. “I had to call Cora. This is a family matter. A pack matter.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles exploded in a hushed whisper. He yanked his arm out of Derek’s grip and gestured wildly in the general direction of the living room. At one point or another, Peter had tried to kill them all: the man could not be trusted.

“Peter was a father,” Derek said softly. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the kitchen counter, eyeing Stiles’ proximity to the door. He was fast enough to grab him before he tried to escape if need be.

“He still is!” Stiles jabbed his finger at the open doorway.

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t bring Malia into this,” he warned with a light growl. “He had no memory of her, my mother saw to that, and she was already wild in the woods when the fire happened. If she hadn’t been, she probably would have been another casualty of my foolishness. I’m not the only one that lost my family that day.”

Stiles slouched against the closest wall and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. Now wasn’t the time to get into a debate, again, as to who was at fault for the Hale fire. 

“He stole a baby,” Stiles groaned.

Derek shrugged helplessly. “We don’t know that,” he said. “The mother bled out in labour. You said so yourself.”

Stiles threw his arms helplessly into the air. “So, he stumbles onto a crying baby and the body of its dead mother, and then what? Takes it in as his own out of the evilness of his heart to raise under his own twisted morals?”

Derek raised an eyebrow at Stiles’ melodramatic ramblings. As much as they were legitimate concerns, these weren’t ordinary circumstances by any means. The child needed a home, and with a possible threat looming on the horizon, prospects were low. At least with Peter, she would be safer than any other baby in the city, and in turn, ground him in a way he hadn’t been in years.

“Peter’s always been somewhat morally ambivalent, but he was a good dad,” Derek said. He took a hesitant step towards Stiles, and when the human didn’t protest, hugged him. “This will be good for him.”

Stiles hid his face in Derek’s shoulder. “This isn’t about teaching him responsibility by bringing home a puppy,” he protested. He had barely gotten to enjoy boyfriend status, and now he had taken on the title of uncle before he’d even mated. “A baby isn’t a pet, Derek.”

Derek pressed his nose to Stiles’ temple and nuzzled. “She’s safe with him.”

Hands firm on Derek’s shoulder, Stiles pulled back far enough to meet Derek’s calm gaze. “That isn’t the issue,” he said, then paused before he added. “I don’t doubt that he would kill to protect her, but there is a reason Peter is pack adjacent. When the bloody murderous rampage starts, don’t look at me.”

“She’s pack,” Derek said simply. If there was one thing that he could always use more of, it was pack and family, and now Cora was coming home.

“Fuck,” Stiles muttered and dropped his head back onto Derek’s shoulder, and the werewolf grinned. Things were never cut and dry with them.

“If you two are done with your domestic squabble in my kitchen, I’d like you to come and meet my little Cassandra,” Peter said from the other room, though only Derek could hear him. He’d shifted Cass into the crook of his arm where she suckled on the tip of his pinky finger with increasing annoyance that it wasn’t producing milk. “And bring a bottle. She’s hungry.”

“Formula?” Derek asked without raising his voice.

“Huh? What-” Stiles was shushed by Derek holding up a finger so he could listen to Peter in the other room.

“Please,” Peter scoffed. “As if I would feed my daughter peasant food. I bought freshly pumped breast milk from a wet nurse.”

“Of course you did,” Derek said. He turned Stiles in the direction of the living room and patted his butt to shoo him. “Go meet Cassandra while I heat up a bottle for her.”

Stiles flinched. Not at the butt pat. That was old hat at this point in their relationship, but the fact that Derek knew how to warm a bottle was not something either of them liked to dwell on. So many innocent lives had been lost the day Kate Argent maliciously burned the Hale house to the ground. Derek had been old enough to help raise his younger siblings and cousins only to have them die in a fire he still blamed himself for.

Stiles inched into the living room as if he were about to be devoured by a monster that lurked in one of the corners. He kept his distance, sidling around the couch without letting Peter out of his sight. The scene was deceptive. If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d probably coo at the sight of the newborn were-pup snuggled against her sleep-deprived dad, but he did.

“So, Cassandra,” Stiles said. He rubbed his arm absentmindedly. “Pretty name.”

“For a pretty girl,” Peter smirked, but it didn’t hold the same about of smug snideness it usually did. He looked worn down. “Do you want to hold her?”

“What? Me?” Stiles took a step backwards, hands automatically coming up in defence. “Yeah, no. Not a baby person. Bad idea. She’d cry, I’d drop her, you’d rip my throat out, Derek would stab you through the heart with his claws, then this baby got no momma.” He winced. “I mean...”

Peter didn’t stop smirking, which only made the silence all that more uncomfortable. While Stiles had kept in contact with Peter while on the road with Derek, they were in no way friends. They had a mutually beneficial exchange of information and snide comments. They barely tolerated each other, even if they had a begrudging mutual respect of each other. Stiles liked to think there had to be more to why Peter had offered the bite rather than forced it.

Bottle in hand, Derek strode into the room and Stiles visibly sagged with relief. “Oh, thank god,” Stiles said.

“Wrist,” Derek demanded, to which Stiles immediately offered without elaboration. Derek dabbed the nipple of the bottle on the sensitive human skin leaving a drop of warm milk. “How’s that?”

“Uh, wet?” Stiles offered.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Temperature, Stiles.”

“Oh, uh.” Stiles stared at the tiny dot of white on his wrist for a second. “Warmish, I guess.”

“You didn’t scream,” Peter said with a grin. “That’s a good sign.”

Derek sat down next to Peter on the couch to hand off the bottle, but instead, he found himself with an armful of teeny, tiny were-pup. She wasn’t even as long as his forearm. Derek tried to hand her back, but Peter tiredly waved him off.

“You were always good with Maisy,” Peter yawned. “Much better than Laura.”

The small flinch at the mention of Derek’s late older sister didn’t go unnoticed, but Stiles’ jaw dropped when Derek went with the new development, settling back into the couch with Cassandra nestled into the crook of his arm against his chest as if he had a million times. And he had. 

Stiles swallowed hard and sank down onto the floor at Derek’s feet with his arms folded over Derek’s knee to prop up his chin so he could watch his boyfriend coo at the contented baby suckling at the bottle. Even baby-phobic Stiles found it adorable.

Neither of them wanted children. That had been a painfully awkward conversation of misunderstanding and hurt after a young Were had offered to carry Derek’s child for him in order to further the Hale line. The offer was solely out of gratitude,  but it hadn’t come across that way at first. They had found her missing pup, who had been with his father, an Alpha from another pack, but all clues had pointed to hunters in the area until Stiles and Derek uncovered a few long hidden indiscretions. 

The Hale bloodline was dying out. Derek missed being surrounded by family, and Stiles had been prepared to take a step back and let Derek have that again, even if that meant not with him. Derek on the other hand somehow began to believe that Stiles wanted a family, and since Derek himself didn’t want kids, that it would be better to distance himself so Stiles could find someone to settle down with. The entire confusion could have been avoided if they had simply talked, but like idiots, they spent three days silently sulking until Derek caught Stiles packing his bag in tears.

Communication had become key from that moment on. Derek, who had always had issues sharing, had taken to the shift in their relationship rather well. It was Stiles, despite his tendency to ramble on, that found it more difficult to share his mind after years of keeping secrets to save lives. Now they just had to drop the no grandbabies bomb on the Sheriff.

Peter, who had taken a blissful moment to sink further into the cushions of the couch unencumbered by a child, peeked open one eye. “Don’t want one of your own?”

“Hell no,” Stiles muttered, and his heartbeat stayed steady. Derek snickered. “Hey, wait! This isn’t about us, this is about you!” He jabbed a finger in Peter’s direction. “You and a stolen baby! Start talking!”

Derek rolled his eyes. As far as Derek was concerned, the matter was settled. The pup needed a father, Peter needed an anchor. It would take more to appease Stiles, not to mention the spiral of research into child rearing and social work this would lead him into, which meant several sleepless nights and carrying Stiles to bed when he passed out.

Clearing his throat, Peter settled in, arms casually draped over the back of the couch. “Let me see,” he began, then paused. “It was a dark and stormy night the day I met my daughter.”

“Oh boy,” Stiles groaned and buried his face in Derek’s leg. “This is going to take a while.”

 

Most of the department had gone home for the night. The quiet was unnerving. With the minimal night crew on shift, the station was empty of the usual hustle and bustle, but that didn’t stop the Sheriff. He was hunched over the paperwork spread over the surface of his desk: crime and lab reports, crime scene photos, and any other scrap of evidence he’d managed to dig up. It wasn’t much.

There was a sharp rap at the door already open door. Parrish held up yet another file, his expression grim. 

“Didn’t your shift end two hours ago?” John said as he leaned back. The worn leather chair, older than Stiles, creaked under him.

“I could say the same, sir,” Parrish said. He flashed a tired, half-smile.

“Stiles said that they were chasing down a lead and they’d be home late. Thought I’d use to time to...” John gestured helplessly to the mess of work on his desk and sighed. His fatigue easily made him look a decade older than his forty-eight years. 

“Kick up a whole lot of nothing,” Jordan offered.

The Sheriff scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “That sounds about right. Maybe I should have used the time to sneak a burger.”

The case was at a standstill. Beyond what Stiles had deduced at the crime scene, and lab reports had confirmed a few hours ago, still much to the surprise of the Sheriff, they had nothing. As much as John cringed at the thought of his son working a case, he’d be remiss to deny him after his impressive show of skill and knowledge earlier that morning. He’d always known his son was brilliant, but he’d gone and matured without him even noticing.

“Well, hopefully, this will make your night better,” Parrish said. He waved the folder in his hand.

“You got an ID?”

Parrish grinned. “I got an ID.”

John held out his hand for the file, and the junior deputy almost tripped over himself in a rush to hand it off. “Remind me to give you a raise, son,” he said and flipped through the documents. “Huh.”

“Sir?”

The shrill ring of the phone broke the quiet of the office. Parrish jumped, but the Sheriff huffed, annoyed to be interrupted. “Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department, Sheriff Stilinski.”

“ _ How’s it hangin’, old man. _ ” 

“Stiles,” John greeted. His shoulders sagged in relief. “Hope your night has been less weird than mine.”

“ _ Don’t get your hopes up.” _

John groaned and massaged his temple with his free hand. That never boded well.

“ _ Well, okay, first off, good news. We found the baby alive and well. It’s all pink and wriggly. Perfectly healthy. Kinda cute in a weird scrunchy way. _ ”

John sat up straight at the news. “Are you serious?” He covered the phone with his palm and mouthed “They found the baby” to Parrish, and motioned for him to close the door with the entire phone.

The young deputy hastened to do so, then pulled up a chair and leaned forward as the Sheriff put the phone on speaker.

“ _ Yup. That’s not even the weird part. _ ” Stiles paused. Someone was talking to him on his side of the line. “ _ I’m getting to it, Sourwolf. Put the eyebrows away. _ ”

“Where are you. I’ll inform social serv-” John grabbed a pen, but Stiles cut him off before he could finish.”

“ _ Not gonna happen, _ ” Stiles said, quick to cut off any argument. “ _ A were-baby can’t go into the system, dad. Think about it logically. What is something like Malia happened again? An entire family dead. That bothered you for years. It still does. The baby is better off where she is. At least for now _ .”

John massaged his forehead. His son was right. Of course he was. “Stiles...”

“ _ Trust me, dad. I’m not happy about it either, but Derek’s word is good enough for me. Think of it as werewolf adoption. _ ”

“You’re not adopting a baby, Stiles,” John said sternly. As much as the pitter-patter of little feet running down the halls again. Grandkids seemed like a not so distant dream. Stiles had settled down, Beacon Hills was less batshit crazy, and Derek was a good man. Still, it was too early. Stiles was too young, though not as young as he and Claudia had been. 

“ _ Oh, hell no _ ,” came Stiles indignant response.

The Sheriff waited for him to follow it up with a short defence that Stiles was an adult and could make his own decision, but it never came. “Well, good,” he said slowly. “At least we agree on one thing. Not that I won’t be supportive in the future when you and Derek-”

“ _ Nope. Don’t even go there. We’re not having kids, dad. Ever, _ ” Stiles interjected. “ _ Matter discussed, debated, and decided. Hate to burst that bubble. _ ” But he failed to sound even a little remorseful, but the matter had been laid out. Breaking the news had been easier than Stiles thought it would have been.  _ “Yeah. Any-hoo. Stop laughing you dick.” _

For a moment, John said nothing, not quite sure how to absorb the new information as he listened to the muffled laughter of someone who was decidedly not Derek on the other end of the line until Parrish pushed the folder on the desk closer to him again. 

John cleared his throat. “Listen, kid, we got an ID on the body,” he said, and busied himself with flipping back open the file Parrish had provided him with. “Elaine Morris, 31.”

“ _ As in the Morris Pack? _ ” Stiles asked, though seemed to be more for the benefit of the people on the other end of the line with him.

“Pack?” Parrish echoed.

John groaned and sat back in his chair rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, again. This was not what they needed; more supernatural drama. Beacon Hills didn’t need to become the site of the latest war of the otherworld, especially after everything had quieted down.

“ _ Sup, Parrish,” _ Stiles greeted. “ _ Alpha Elijah Morris. Small family pack just outside Takilma, Oregon. _ ” 

Frowning, the Sheriff spun his chair to face the giant map stretched over the back wall. It displayed the northern half of California and a small sliver of the bordering states; Nevada and Oregon. “Never heard of it.”

“ _ Kinda the point, Pops. Were-families tend to like seclusion. We’ll look into it.” _

The line disconnected leaving John Stilinski with more questions, and none of the answers. He turned back to Parrish. The poor kid looked like someone had struck him over the head. “I’m gonna strangle my damn kid to be so damn secretive all the time,” he grumbled. He slammed the folder on the desk shut. "Damn."

 

Mid-morning, the woods were eerily still. No rustle of small animals through the underbrush, no songbirds in the trees, and no whisper of wind in the leaves. The silence left Stiles uneasy as he flexed his magic, sending small swells through the earth and allowing the responding surges to blindly guide him through the woods like a homing beacon. 

The steady warmth of Derek’s hand on his back kept him from tripping, occasionally yanking him out of the path of trees, stumps, and roots. 

“Are you sure about this,” Derek asked softly. Stiles' face was soft and serene, eyes closed, absolutely trusting of Derek.

Stiles tilted his head towards Derek. “No, but when has that ever stopped me?” he said, and Derek snorted. “If something’s coming, we need to know. I’m done with surprises.”

They walked farther, Stiles quietly directing Derek from the gentle tugs against the strands of his magic. Once Derek hoisted Stiles over an enormous fallen moss-covered tree, and twice, carried him over small gurgling streams that wound through the trees.

Suddenly, Stiles stopped. “We’re here,” he murmured and opened his eyes to find the immense hewn surface of the Nemeton stretched out in front of them.

Derek started, as if the stump had snuck up on him, and knowing it’s nature, it probably had. “Right.” He stepped closer to Stiles, body angled as if to place himself between his human and danger. “Sure you don’t need me.”

Stiles patted Derek on the back and then slid his hand down to cup his butt. “I’ll be fine, big guy. Just me and the creepy stump bonding over chaos,” he said, and Derek frowned.

It took several more minutes of convincing, but eventually, Derek stripped down, his clothes left in a neat pile beside the stump while Stiles unashamedly ogled him, and shifted. He circled Stiles twice, nudged his hand, and rubbed against his side. Leaving Stiles alone in the middle of the silent woods went against every grain of instinct. His fur prickled uncomfortably.

Roughly patting Derek’s flank when he made another pass, Stiles pushed the large wolf back towards the surrounding trees. “Go for a run. Chase Thumper for me. I’ll scream if I need you.”

With a final  _ thuwhap _ of his tail against the back of Stiles’ thighs, Derek disappeared into the forest leaving Stiles alone with the silence of the forest that pressed in around him. He crawled to the center of the Nemeton and settled himself down cross-legged, eyes closed, then breathed.

Deep breath in.

                        1 

                             2

                                  3

                                      Deep breath out.

Stiles drew his consciousness inwards, centering himself, focusing on the bright flicker of energy at his core. He used to have a terrible time concentrating when he first delved into his magical abilities. That spark of power that had been woken when he first sacrificed himself to the Nemeton. He’d never been able to calm his mind. He’d been put on medication at a young age, told he wasn’t quite like everyone else, and that was okay. But he’d never asked for excuses. It just meant he needed to find a way that worked for him, and find it he did. 

Finding his center settled him in a way no one had expected. At first, it had unnerved Derek how un-Stiles like Stiles suddenly was. Calm, collected, and still. Then he opened his mouth, and nothing it was if nothing had changed. He was still an idiot, but he was Derek’s idiot.

Now, as Stiles curled his mind around his spark, the rest of the world fell away, and at once, was connected to him. Threads of energy tied together every living being, and them to Stiles. The Nemeton was weak, polluted. It needed to be cleansed, and Stiles would fulfill that need on the full moon when he and Derek finally joined together permanently, spiritually; eternally.

“Mr. Stilinski,” a soft voice interrupted to stillness.

Stiles opened his eyes. “Dr. Deaton.”

The veterinarian stood at the edge of the of the small clearing around the felled Nemeton, hands clasped behind his back and head bowed solemnly. “I think it’s time we talked.”

“Well,” Stiles said, but made no move to abandon his seated position at the center of the ancient tree. “You’re not wrong.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Conference

In the woods, a twig snapped. Derek hadn’t gone all that far, and Stiles smirked because while the wolf had alerted him that he was nearby, he was smart enough to stay out of sight lest he wanted Stiles to blast him, again. One leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent at the knee, Stiles leaned back on the palms of his hands. The Nemeton pulsed beneath him. Stiles studied the veterinarian with quiet interest, and Deaton shifted ever so slightly under his gaze.

Derek had the bad habit of idling nearby when Stiles meditated or met various members of the magical community. On more than occasion, Stiles had literally blasted him with a sharp jolt. Not enough to hurt him, but enough to shame him as he jumped. It wasn’t so bad if Derek joined him. His presence was calming, to a certain extent, as long as he was a constant presence, not one flitting in and out at the fringes his senses.

   The veterinarian clasped his hands together in front of him. “The beacon finally called you home. We have waited a long time for your return,” Deaton said, voice far too quiet, but still carried in the stillness.

   Stiles shrugged, body visibly at ease, but every sense tingled at the alert. “It was time. Missed my dad. I learned a lot, but I needed to stop running. We both did.”

   “Pack is important,” Deaton agreed with a knowing nod. “A strong pack; a strong bond will stabilize your magic. Help you maintain... light.”

   “And here I thought you liked a little chaos,” Stiles said. Deaton’s sister had once threatened to kill him if he began to lose control. No doubt Deaton wouldn’t have hesitated either. “A little good, a little bad.”

   Deaton frowned. “I am a Druid. I maintain the balance,” he explained, as if that was all there was to it. “I do not tip the scales one way or another. I am neutral.”

   Stiles grinned, an eerie reminder of the Nogitsune long passed, and leaned forward to loosely hug his bent knee. The fingers of his left hand traced the rings of the giant stump he sat on. “Now, that’s just not true, is it. Former Hale emissary; stalwart defender of the innocent. That’s a rather definitive side. ”

   “Given time and training, you will come to understand. Your magical abilities will be an asset to the pack.”

   “Let’s not forget my charming wit and sharp mind.” Stiles’ expression drew serious, the sneaky grin curling into a hard frown. For the last several years, he’d trained wherever he could, learned from whoever would have him, and tested himself at every opportunity, and Deaton had dismissed him as if he were still a child that didn’t believe in his own gifts. Everyone always underestimated him, and that usually worked to his advantage. “I do not serve your balance. I protect the people I love. My pack. My family.”

   “Do you?” Deaton said with an infuriating raise of his eyebrow.

   Stiles closed his hands into tight fists. His eyes narrowed. “I’m human.”

   Deaton hummed. “Are you?”

   A low growl erupted from the woods. Deaton was unmoved by the sudden appearance of a black wolf slowly stalking into the clearing as if he had somehow anticipated Derek’s presence. The only wisdom he’d displayed thus yet.

   “You have excellent control of your true form, Derek,” Deaton stated calmly. “Your mother would be proud.”

   The answering growl echoed through the trees as a warning, shattering the silence of the woods. Deaton flinched, ever so slightly, but Stiles merely raised an eyebrow, mocking Deaton’s previous composure.

   “Really, you didn’t see that coming?” Stiles rolled his eyes. “He wasn't even subtle, not that he really understands the concept.”

   Derek gracefully leaped up onto the Nemeton beside Stiles and pushed his nose into the waiting hand, nipping gently at his fingers in retaliation, and the tension slowly drained from the human. Fingers combed through his dark fur, scratching behind his ears, and Derek rubbed along his human companion, marking him with his scent before he settled down, curled around his human, head on Stiles’ thigh. His attention never left the druid hovering uncertainly at the treeline.

   Closing his eyes, Stiles inhaled deeply through his nose as he drew energy from the earth around him; ancient Magicks. The power hummed pleasantly, crackling under his skin. When he opened his eyes, Deaton was gone, and Derek was peacefully napping, wrapped protectively around him as the sun slowly sank below the horizon.

 

   The parking garage was empty, as it should be at two in the morning. When hunters said tomorrow night, really they meant the wee hours of the morning, not the evening like any sane person. But anyone who hunted down werewolves and other supernatural creatures because they felt it was their duty to police the supernatural wasn’t quite balanced.

On the third level, there was a blind spot in the cameras that made the garage an ideal location for many meet-ups. It was enclosed, which didn’t allow surprises from the hunters looking to ambush their quarry but also didn’t allow for much movement for angry werewolves that lashed out.

When Scott roared up on his bike, the hunters were already assembled. Several trucks and SUVs congregated strategically around the secondary entrance like a blockade, forcing the young alpha to approach from the front rather than sneak in.

Chris Argent stood out in front of a group of armed hunters, arms crossed. The bright lights of vehicles lit up the dark garage creating an eerily backlit scene of aggression.

Scott slid off his bike and pulled off his helmet. The rumble and clatter of an ancient engine shattered the uneasy quiet of the garage. All heads turned to the blue Jeep easing into the garage, a familiar face behind the wheel, and a scowling one as his companion.

“Thought I said alone,” Chris said, but he didn’t seem too choked by at the sudden, although, not wholly unexpected appearance of Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale.

“What? I didn’t invite them. Stiles, what the hell,” Scott said as he advanced on the human tumbling out of the Jeep. Derek was already rounding the hood to meet them. “Why are you here? Go home. This doesn’t concern you.”

Yanking his bat out of the cab of the Jeep, Stiles slammed the door closed. “Sorry, dude. Not your call. You honestly think I’m going to let his idiot walk into a meeting of hunters alone.” He jerked his head towards Derek and rested the bat against his shoulder. “Thought you were supposed to be unarmed.”

The corner of Chris’s mouth twitched as he tried hard not to smirk. “I thought I called for a meeting with the Beacon Hills alpha, alone.”

“And he’s responding, though slightly insulted you didn’t contact him personally,” Stiles shot back. He tried to step around Scott, but the young alpha blocked him.

“God damn it, Stiles. God home!” Scott tried to herd the human back to the Jeep, going as far as to push him. Stiles fumbled, catching himself on the side of the Jeep.

An angry growl ripped through the parking garage. The hunters cocked their weapons, all eyes trained on Derek poised and poised to attack Scott for his rough treatment of a very human Stiles, but Chris waved his team off.

This meeting had turned into more of a debacle than anyone had anticipated. A quick in and out would have been nice. The hunters were jumpy, Scott annoyed, and Derek angry. The only ones relatively calm were Chris, and surprisingly, Stiles. Not at all a common occurrence.

Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, Chris nodded to Derek. “Hale.”

Derek slowly retracted his fangs and claws, but his eyes flashed bright red in acknowledgment. “Argent.”

Scott leaped at Derek. “Who did you kill?”

Before Scott could strike, Stiles jabbed him in the chest with the tip of his mountain ash bat and held the enraged true alpha at bay. “Woah. Stand down, dude. You do not wanna start what you’re about to start. Does not end well for you.”

“How can you defend him,” Scott snarled. “Boyd and Erica are dead because of him!”

The hunters tensed, raising their weapons again, ready to take down an incensed alpha. Chris signaled them to stand down, but no one moved. To his credit, Derek didn’t rise to the bait, expression impassive as the red in his eyes faded.

Stiles shoved, forcing Scott two steps back, with the time of his mountain ash bat. “Don’t lay that on Derek. Do you have any idea what he’s sacrificed for this town? For you?”

The atmosphere of the garage crackled with energy that made the hair on their arms stand on end and their neck prickled uncomfortably. A sudden light breeze in the stillness of the garage ruffled Stiles’ messy hair, which prompted everyone, except Derek to take a step back. Stiles slashed his fingers down in a straight line, like a barrier against Scott, and in a flash like an electric strike, a thin line of mountain ash appeared, barring the true alpha, and not a moment too soon.

Scott slammed into the barrier. It rippled and strained under his assault, but held. “Dude, what the hell. This is my town! I’m the alpha!”

Eyes closed, Chris sighed through his mouth and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately,” he said. “Stiles is correct.” And Scott’s effort to break through the barrier ceased as he turned to gape at Chris. “I apologize for the oversight Alpha Hale, but due to the circumstances...”

   “Understandable. We haven’t announced our presence publicly,” Derek said. He lifted Stiles by the back of his plaid shirt like a kitten carried by its momma and set him down on the hood of the Jeep when the human gave into his innate childishness and stuck his tongue out at his supposed best friend. “And as we’ve only begun to settle in, the rites are still to be renewed. Stiles, if you would.” He gestured to the mountain ash preventing Scott from moving too far.

   Stiles huffed and dismissively waved his hand as if to tell the alpha to fuck off, but the thin line of black ash dissipated as if caught in a sudden breeze; a surprising show of control and power. Most people would consider manipulating mountain ash a parlour trick, but few understood the focus it took to control it without touching it. It was a strategic show of power that would go over Scott’s head, but the hunters understood. They shifted uncomfortably, weapons gripped tight. Even Chris’s expression slackened minutely in surprise. Stiles wasn’t the same awkward ball of energy that left Beacon Hills.

   “Yeah, okay. Whatever you want, big guy,” Stiles muttered. He sulked on the hood of the Jeep where Derek had sat him, bat across his knees, arms crossed, and a significant pout which only made Derek roll his eyes.

   “A human emissary to mediate.” Chris appeared to contemplate something. “A hot-headed, reckless emissary, but human nonetheless. Smart move.”

   Scott’s head tilted to the side like a confused puppy. “But Stiles isn’t my emissary yet,” he said, and all eyes, in varying states of disbelief, turned on the young alpha.

“Now is not the time, Argent,” Derek interrupted before Chris could correct Scott. “You have questions, we have answers. So speak.” And he did.

The discussion was annoyingly long, but informative, even if Scott spent the majority of the conversation in a state of confusion and questioned everything. The young woman found in the woods was the younger sister of the Morris pack alpha, another werewolf, and with no apparent leads on her sudden appearance in Beacons Hills. Violence against werewolves was rarely a concern for hunters, especially if hunters had been behind the attack, so Stiles and Derek were working with the Sheriff on the case. They had no qualms with keeping Chris apprised of the situation in the chance that something new threatened the town, but this was a pack matter.

Chris nodded, satisfied with the information he’d been given, but several of the hunters weren’t. A dead werewolf could mean trouble.

“You’re just going to let one of them handle this?” a woman said. She had a shotgun resting over her shoulder, and her boots were caked with dried mud from a recent trip into the damp Beacon Hills Preserve.

“And here I thought you’d all be thrilled with one less werewolf in the world,” Stiles drawled. He rested his chin on his hand, elbow propped on his knee.

“Stiles,” Derek groaned. So much for an impartial human emissary.

“What about the baby?” another hunter asked equally as hostile.

“Baby?” Scott repeated.

“The autopsy report mentioned a crude cesarean by an unknown party, but no mention of a fetus,” Chris answered calmly, and Derek tensed.

Stiles placed a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “The baby has been recovered and fostered out to another member of the supernatural community, where it belongs,” Stiles said, purposely tight-lipped on any revealing information. While he still didn’t entirely agree with Derek’s decision, he supported him regardless. Peter was better than a hunter, even if only marginally.

“You adopted a baby? What the hell, Stiles!” Scott said so suddenly that Stiles nearly fell off the hood of the Jeep.

Stiles held his hands up in defensive confusion. “Why does everyone think I want a kid. Have you seen me? Derek has a difficult enough time keeping up with me on a good day, we don’t need that kinda energy.”

“Responsibility, Stiles. The word you’re looking for is responsibility,” Derek said, but he was smiling.

“That’s a mild relief,” Chris murmured low enough for only the wolves to hear and shared a sly smirk with Derek. Then louder “keep me informed. My resources are at your disposal, Alpha Hale; Stiles.”

Chris took a step forward, hand outstretched, and Derek met his shake halfway, surprising the hunter by pulling the older man into a tight one-armed hug and pounded him lightly on the back.

“Dinner this week?” Derek offered. “I make a mean steak.”

“Oh my god, you’re going to kill my dad, Derek!” Stiles whined, and both men turned to look at him. Derek rolled his eyes, and Chris tried hard not to smile. “Steak! What’s next? Bacon?”

Off to the side, Scott watched with mild confusion written across his face, the other hunters equally wary. This wasn’t an ordinary conference. At some point, Scott had lost control of the situation, and Stiles was back to butting his nose where it didn’t below while Derek chatted up Chris Argent as if they were friends.

“Hey, Scotty! We gotta try that again,” Stiles said as he slid off the hood of the Jeep. Derek and Chris were still quietly conversing. “I’ve gotten pretty good at creating barriers, but who’s stronger? True alpha or wise-cracking human? What do you say? Wanna test the limits?”

Scott blinked. “What?”

 

At nine in the morning, John Stilinski’s morning routine of coffee over his casework at the kitchen table was disrupted by a single sharp knock on the door. He frowned, not entirely sure that he hadn’t imagined the sound. No vehicles had pulled into the driveway, both Stiles and Derek were still upstairs, and any deputies or contractors would have called.

Mug in hand, John shuffled down the hall to the front door in his faded plaid slippers, a present from Stiles three years ago when he finally wore a hole in the faithful pair he’d owned since Stiles had been born. Claudia had given them to him. It only fitted that his son replaced them.

On the front stoop, Cora Hale stood with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her leather jacket and an expression of feigned disinterest on her face.

“Cora!” John smiled. “I thought you weren’t getting in until tonight?”

“Sheriff,” Cora said with a short nod, but the sheriff greeted her with a warm hug, at which she stiffened in his embrace before awkwardly patting him on the back.

The sheriff sipped his coffee and motioned her into the house. “Let me just run upstairs and let Stiles and Derek know you’re here.”

“Derek already knows,” Cora said as she studied a picture of the Stilinski family before Claudia had gotten sick that hung in the front hall. “But they’re busy having sex.”

THUMP

The sheriff spilled his coffee the sudden bang, but Cora snorted. Cursing under his breath, John wiped the dampness off the front of his robe. “I thought we agreed not while I’m in the house,” he yelled at the ceiling.

Derek arrived first, flawless as ever, but shirtless and barefoot. At least he was wearing jeans. He greeted his younger sister with an enthusiastic hug that lifted her off the floor.

A human’s spine would have been broken, but Cora only grunted and wrinkled her nose. “Please shower,” she grumbled, but her brother just laughed and pounded her on the back.

Two muffled thuds and Stiles stumbled down the stairs still pulling on his shirt. He ran smack into the door frame, temporarily blinded with his shirt stuck up over his head, and wobbled. Yanking down his shirt, Stiles rubbed the red spot on his forehead.

“We locked the door this time,” Stiles said, and the Sheriff shuddered. Not a repeat performance anyone in the house needed. “Cora!” Stiles flew at the new arrival, arms wide, only to be rebuffed by a single finger to the forehead to keep him at bay.

Cora scowled. “Not happening, cum breath.”

The sheriff turned around and walked straight out of the room mumbling under his breath that he couldn’t believe that this was his life, and what would Claudia think. Truthfully, she probably would have found the entire situation hilarious or cried because her little boy was growing up. It was a toss up really.

“Right, uh, we’ll go shower,” Stiles said. His face flushed hotly as he backed away from Cora’s judgy eyebrows. The Hale family resemblance was uncanny. “Good to see you.”

Derek chuckled as his boyfriend fled back upstairs. “Make yourself at home,” he said and followed the cursing human back upstairs.

“Separate showers,” John called up after them and poked his head back into the hall. “You hungry?”

“Starved,” Cora replied.

Hands still stuffed casually into her jacket, Cora poked around. The walls were covered in photos, old and new. Some included Derek, most featured Scott. The pack and extended pack played a large part in the general theme of family. Claudia was always up front and center, gone but never forgotten.

“Want anything in particular?” John asked. He opened the fridge and studied the mounds of fresh vegetables, fruit, and ‘healthy’ proteins judged suitable by Stiles.

“Got any deer?” Cora asked. She wandered into the kitchen and pulled up a chair at the table, quickly glancing over the police files scattered over the surface of the table. She pulled a photo of Elaine closer. “I knew her. She was Laura’s age.”

John paused, half buried in the fridge. He cleared his throat. “Believe it or not, deer is on the menu,” he said, and quickly straightened with a package of brown paper wrapped deer chops. “Derek is quite the provider. Stiles is thrilled. Better for my heart, apparently.”

Cora hummed, still studying the old high school photo of Elaine from the case file. “Great,” she mumbled. “Oh, and they’re in the shower together.”

“God damn it.” John banged on the wall at the base of the stairs. “Don’t make me come up there!”

Cora’s head snapped up. Not in the direction of the stairs, or even in the direction of the copulating couple, but toward the front door. In seconds, she disappeared down the hall and flung open the door.

On the front step, hand raised to knock, Peter Hale stood dressed a tad better than last time with Cass in an adorable blue bunny onesie. “Well, hello dear niece. Meet my precious little girl.”

Immediately, Cora reached out for the baby that Peter handed over surprisingly willingly, and scented the latest packmate. She ran her nose across the crown of Cass’ head, and gently nuzzled the sleeping pup.

Still in his robe, deer chops in hand, Sheriff Stilinski stared at the latest guest cradling a sleeping newborn. “Derek, Stiles! You have some explaining to do!”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my original YA Fiction on my personal website here: [Jayden Phoenix](https://www.jaydenphoenix.com/)
> 
> or
> 
> You can stalk me on Tumblr here: [Always the Little Spoon](http://always-the-little-spoon.tumblr.com/)


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